


Echoes of Arlathan

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: CONSENT is a big issue, Circle Elves, City Elves, DEFINITELY TRANQUIL ABUSE, Dalish Elves, Divine Lelianna, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, I mean jylan is also an OC buuuut, Jylan/OC, Multi, My Warden is a dick ok lets be clear about that tho, No longer canon-compliant, Physical Abuse, Post-Trespasser, Rite of Tranquility, Sad Elf Story, Soren is his own worst enemy tbh, Tranquil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:41:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 49
Words: 401,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8089441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Soren Surana, Archmage, Arl, and Hero of Ferelden, remembers life in the Ferelden Circle as a constant, dangerous dance between Mages and Templars enraptured by the Chant of Light. It was a dance he knew well. Jylan Ansera, Tranquil, Chemist, and Guildsman, danced so poorly his feet were cut off- metaphorically, of course. Not that these things really matter, you see: Surana is not to be painted with the same brush as other elves and Ansera isn't even a person anymore. Neither one would see any value in their shared heritage even if Shartan himself popped out of the Fade to explain it to them, because there's nothing to explain. So they're elves, boo-hoo, wasn't surviving the Circles an ordeal in itself without everyone focusing on their delicate ears and luminous eyes? And their soft hair? And their pretty, pretty faces?Who cares about dead and dusty Arlathan when there's strife and loss enough right here?





	1. Prologue: The Grand Cleric

 

The Hero of Ferelden was getting _married._

Soren Surana, Warden Commander of Ferelden and Archmage of Cumberland’s College of Enchanters, had ruled the Arling of Amaranthine for fourteen years. Under his tenure, Amaranthine had weathered and survived the Darkspawn Thaw, rebuilt the fortress of Vigil’s Keep, founded the Silver Order of Amaranthine for its own protection, and retained its great wealth through the arming of her merchant fleet. They had cut down on raider attacks and secured the lucrative lines of trade from Ferelden’s quarries and textile houses to the wealthy merchants and spice traders of Antiva and the Free Marches.

He continuously forged trade agreements with vice-like control over the tithes and taxes levied against foreign ships, heedless of Denerim’s own interests. The Arl was never one to make his intentions known to the capital before acting on them, poaching from the north’s wealthy and powerful and filling his own Arling’s coffers to the brim.

Arl Surana had opened his keep and then his city to the presence of the lost Tranquil abandoned by the broken Circles of Magi. In Amaranthine City he had founded a guild hall and granted them autonomy under his banner, establishing what was now, six years later, one of the wealthiest brotherhoods in the country.

It never had and never would be the authority of a Grey Warden or mere Archmage to supersede the Chantry’s role in caring for its most vulnerable persons. That had he drawn the Tranquil to Amaranthine throughout the Mage-Templar war and offered sanctuary to a people who had never been under threat from the violence was neither laudable nor just: it was a corruption of purpose and the overstepping of boundaries.

He had refused, rejected, and soundly dismissed repeated petitions to have the Formari Guildsmen moved from Amaranthine City to the bosom of the Chantry in Val Royeaux, or even to the beating heart of his own Magi College in Cumberland. He was obstinate, stubborn, and far too convinced of his own importance to heed the derision of his betters.

Regardless of where one went within the Arling, nay, the country! The Warden Commander’s insufferable personage was well known. Arrogant, proud, deceitful creature. A tongue as forked as his pointed ears, hissing in His Majesty King Alistair’s noble ear.

Not a year gone now, Amaranthine had amassed an army in secret and marched without reservation into the heartland of Ferelden, her Hinterland forests, and Surana had _razed_ Castle Redcliffe in an act of inconceivable arrogance. He had weakened and wounded their nation’s defenses for his own gain! He had taken the politics and manipulation of House Guerrin, an expectation and outright _reality_ for the nobility of every other civilized nation, and answered it with naked steel and foul magic. He had torn apart one of the oldest and most respected houses in Ferelden _brick by brick_ and taken their young heir and daughter hostage back with him to Amaranthine.

Now no Arling in Ferelden would stand against him. Arl Bryland of South Reach had tied a lead from his own neck to Surana’s magic-scarred hand. Edge Hall and South Hills were reverent in Amaranthine’s wake, Redcliffe and Denerim had been shattered from their very foundations by his wrath twice now. It was unbearable, un _thinkable_ , that any mage had been granted such intolerable freedom and permitted to wreak brazen havoc across their nation without even a _whisper_ of reprisal! The Teryn of Highever was misled so far as to carry on in friendly and confident terms with one who walked with the misbegotten pride of magic as his mantle. Even _Her Majesty_ , Queen Anora, was quiet and would never speak a word against his dishonourable person.

It was enough to make her _sick_ with rage.

Hero of Ferelden, so they called him. Slayer of Urthemiel, _so it was claimed_ despite his obvious good health after a battle which ought to have claimed his life in the moment of its end. Three Grey Wardens had stood at the Battle of Denerim and only one had died. Why was it Surana the Hero, not Riordan?

The wealthiest Arling in the nation handed to the thin-fingered clutches of an _elf_ of all the Maker’s People- the very sort that never knew coin except to spend it frivolously on drink and dice! A _mage_ who spent every hour of every day taunted by _demons_ given unsupervised control of so many lives and livelihoods. A proud-nosed, insufferable example of what had dragged Shartan’s people away from the Maker’s guidance and caused their second nation to burn under the boots of the Exalted March.

And now the proud, vile-blooded creature demanded this of her: this _aberration._  

The Hero of Ferelden was getting _married_ , and she, Grand Cleric Brona of Amaranthine, was being asked to _preside_ over the ceremony. The sanctity of Our Lady Redeemer, the holy centre of Amaranthine Arling, was being petitioned to host a gathering of the Ferelden Grey Wardens, Amaranthine Banns, the Teryn of Highever, the five other Arls of Ferelden, and presence of His and Her Majesties King Alistair and Queen Anora of Ferelden for a _mockery_ of their Lady’s teachings.

The elven, magic-corrupted Hero of Ferelden was getting married and not even to a woman of his own kind, but to a _human_. A _Chasind woman_ not even of Andraste’s Blessed following!

It would not be tolerated.

Amaranthine’s Grand Cleric would _not_ allow it.

 


	2. The Chemist and the Warden

 

Eyes opened some time before dawn, a rhythm cultivated over years in the Circle tower.

Cold air, but a warm, heavy quilt. It was dark. The bed smelled of straw and was comfortable. The iron brazier had gone cold, justifying the low temperature of the room. It was unpleasant to rise from the bed and feel the cold air on hands and throat and feet.

The cold and rest made the muscles in his sides tight, his arms were heavy. Warm socks woven from thick wool protected his feet from the stone floor as he pulled one on, and then the other. He lifted his arms over his head and stretched his back, pulled one arm to the side to stretch his shoulder, and repeated the gesture on the other side.

Rose, turned, found knees and hands on the cold floor. Held arms straight and then bent to the floor, rose again without locking elbows. Repeated for three sets of seven. The exercise warmed his skin in the cold, as it was unwise to waste charcoal and time rekindling the brazier at the start of the day. He transferred his weight and sat on the floor, hands behind his head, and pulled with his gut to sit up and then ease back down. Three sets of ten. The room was no longer cold to him.

The water was cold. He drank some from the wooden cup, then used the rest to wash his face and hands. In the dark he combed his hair, and he was competent at parting the long black strands and folding them into a braid that ended at the base of his neck. It was not long and did not capture all of his hair, but it was sufficient. Soft wool was traded for good linen smallclothes, and then warm wool-woven trousers of grey. The linen shirt was white with long sleeves and cleanly stitched seams and hems.

The under robe was made of thick white wool, cream-coloured with sleeves cut close around his wrists and marked with several rows of dancing red stitches. It was buttoned down the front. The top layer was dark blue wool, sleeveless, with a dark hood. It was heavy and good with a row of wooden buttons inside and a set of white toggles on the outside. It was belted with simple leather which was notched to hold tools that were not present in this room. He found his shoes in their place beneath the frame of the bed and put them on.

From the small table in the room, which was not easily seen in the dark, he found the wooden box placed in the middle of it and the pieces resting inside. The first was a wooden amulet with a swinging face of the chantry’s yellow sunburst. When the face turned, the inscription was clearly visible: _‘May the Maker Guide you back to our love - Mother’_. Not his mother. The woven cord was placed over his head, his hair pulled out of the way, and the amulet was tucked between the blue and white robes. The second was a ring of cut white quartz with the Formari pestle and hand, which was placed on the middle finger of his left hand. The third was a large iron ring with three keys attached, with a long leather strap. The strap looped through his belt, and the ring clipped to the belt as well in a different place, allowing him to remove the ring without becoming detached from the keys themselves. By drawing the dark hood over his head, he was now prepared to leave.

Hunger was his second priority. He left the cold room and the corridor was also cold, but was in the process of being lit by lantern light by a servant with a pot of oil. They did not address one another, and one of the keys locked the door to the room he had just exited.

He proceeded down the corridor and to the left. It was before dawn and first bell, Vigil’s Keep was quiet and only the servants had cause to wander the halls. He found the drafty way through the castle to a cold hallway with an exterior door at the end: it was ajar to the drizzling rain outside. There was a door before the exit that was on his left again, and he inserted the largest of the three keys into this lock. It opened.

It was a workshop, clean, and as it was left yesterday. It was very cold with its wood countertops and stone shelves and hanging cabinets with their glass windows. The work-table in the middle of the room was clear but for a ledger, large basket, wide linen cloth, and several jars and parcels all left out intentionally. He approached the quiet, dark, cold fireplace in the far corner and knelt, drawing forth a large woven basket filled with pieces of tinder and wood. He transferred the larger pieces of tinder into the quiet maw of the hearth, followed by a handful of cast-off threads, soiled wool clippings, and bundles of dried grass and roots. The fire caught quickly.

He took one of the two great black cauldrons and filled it with water from the pump set in the back-counter’s stone sink, under the bubbled glass window which was not yet lit by the sun. The pump was loud in the quiet, the wooden handle bore a heavy grain that marked his palm. Several thrusts of cold air resulted in a gurgle and splash of cold water. It was clean. It filled the cauldron and was heavy when lifted.

The cauldron was placed on the floor. A larger piece of wood was fed to the fire, and then the cauldron was hung by a strong hook meant to carry such weight. His first priority had been seen to, now he would eat.

The workshop was locked. He went back through the keep. He reached the servants’ mess hall and found those who had been awake far longer than him and hard at work. The stones down here were always warm and the Vigil’s cisterns were near the central fires which kept the kitchens running. Hot, fresh bread with a spoonful of soft salted butter and sweet jam. A fresh autumn apple. His hood remained up, his voice was not necessary: he took his food with a quiet nod and left the hall.

The workshop was unlocked. The food was consumed. From a drawer: soft doeskin gloves were pulled over his hands, and a folded bundle of paper in a tanned yellow skin folio was withdrawn. The ledger was reviewed, names and requests checked against the small folio, and each item was verified by his touch before being placed in the basket. Bundles of herbs, wooden jars, wax paper bundles, and glass vials were placed in the basket, and then covered by the linen.

The workshop was locked.

“Mornin’, Compounder.” Four quarter-pound blocks of soap, individually wrapped to prevent contact with water before necessary, were handed to the Kennelmaster and signed for. “He’s eager for his walk this morning, as you’d expect. Mind he doesn’t knock you over in the rain.” One of the kennels was opened, and a great grey mabari hound was let out. Dirthamen. Dirth.

The dog panted, thick pink tongue lolling from its jaws. It scampered and danced with heavy feet, back end wagging. Large claws pressed on his toes, then the paws came up and pushed hard on his chest, necessitating a change in stance so he was not pushed over. Hot breaths washed up to his face. Unpleasant smell. Unnecessary attention.

“Sit.” Obedient hound. “Thank you, Kennelmaster.” To Dirthamen: “Come.”

Out into the rain, with the clouds turning a soft blue and grey with the retreating night. Not heavy rain, but cold. A scarf would have been advisable but not necessary: it was not yet winter.

“This should have come yesterday.” A large case of glue for the carpenters, heavy, delivered first to relieve the weight. “Off with you, elf.” He left.

“This is the completely wrong dye!” Four pots of pigment for the seamstre- “Why would you bring me more green? Open those leaf ears of yours next time!”

“Heatherfrond dye was the request noted in the apothecary ledg-”

“We’ll see what your master has to say on the matter when he returns!” That would not be for many months, but he did not make this statement. “Quit staring! The rest of us have work to take pride in- get!” He left.

“Out again without a cloak, I see.” He was sufficiently warmed by his clothes and said as much as he handed the appropriate jars of salve to the Midwife, Mistress Valora. The old elven woman tugged off the lid of each one to check the contents and consistencies of the creams, and took her bottles of distilled snowdrop oil. She handed him a bushel of tangled elfroot gathered by her granddaughter with instructions to have the resulting salve brought to her when it was ready. A familiar red-woven satchel was passed to him without comment and placed in the basket. Dirthamen’s nose snuffed at the basket in vain.

Mistress Valora shut the door and he left.

“If I have told you once, I have told you a thousand times: you may not enter the chantry unescorted.” He had not entered the chantry, he was standing presently at its doors to deliver the bars of incense for- “You may not have crossed the threshold but you are certainly within the gates. You will wait at the chanter’s board for these deliveries: I will not have your presence cause the Maker’s children to hesitate to attend their prayers. Andraste will give me the patience to forgive this transgression yet again, child, but you of all people should know better than to test the limits of that grace.”

“…When the incense has run thin, Revered Mother, I will wait at the chanter’s board to deliver the next supply.”

“Walk in the Maker’s Light, Compounder.” He left with first bell ringing in the start of the day, Dirthamen’s heavy paws splashing in puddles on the way back to the keep.

The workshop was unlocked. The fire was stoked. The water was boiling. His hands were cold. He tied an apron over his robes and replaced the doeskin gloves for rough work-gloves. The ledger was opened and looked over. Heatherfrond dye written in the seamstress’ hand from yesterday, now crossed out. Tallow requested by the quartermaster. Salem seed glue for the library. Rat poison for the kitchen.

The satchel from the midwife was opened, he extracted a thick, clean beef bone, and handed it to the hound. Dirthamen took it and curled up into his basket under the table, content.

He began to work.

He fetched what he required: a vial of salem seed oil and the raw seeds as well. Several cups of salem seeds were measured into the mortar, and lightly crushed. An iron skillet was heated in the space between the cauldron and the embers, and the seeds were toasted in it. Some of the oil was added, the pan removed from the heat, and the mixture poured back into the mortar. Now it was beaten into a paste. The paste smelled like ash. The oil was grey and grainy, the proper traits. In an hour it would sit and rest.

“You there, where’s the healer?” The salem paste had been beaten for only half that time when there was a voice at the door. Half that time and the oil was black, but too loose. Not ready. “Oi, I’m talking to you!” It was not ready. He stopped. He looked up. A human man he did not know, but his question was understood.

“Warden Guerrin has been dispatched from Vigil’s Keep for the Anderfels,” he stated. “He will not return until spring at the earliest.”

“Well who’m I supposed to talk to then? _You?_ ”

“I am not qualified as a healer. I am the Vigil’s-”

“What’s that _mess_ on your face?”

“I am Tranquil, the brand is a mark from the ritual.” He said. “I am the castle’s chemist and in Warden Guerrin’s absence the Acting Apothecary of Vigil’s Keep. If you know what medicine or treatment you require then I am able to prepare it for you.”

“Bloody useless you are then.” The man left.

He resumed his work. When the paste was ready it was scraped and the contents placed in a large bowl which was then filled with water. The black dredges would sink, the fine oil would rise, the bowl was placed on one of the counters with a linen cloth over it.

One of the lower cupboards was opened. With great effort, the large block of rendered druffalo fat was dragged from the dark space. With a heated wire he sliced a large slab off the front end and pushed the remainder back inside. The tallow was softened with moderate heat and heavy kneading, then pressed into block molds to ensure an even amount to match the request, and then left to set.

Rat poison. The midday bell interrupted the preparations.

The satchel from Mistress Valora was opened, and a pie of spinach and cheese was placed in a clean and covered iron skillet to heat over the fire. Water from the cauldron was poured into a cup holding dried mint leaves and crushed berries for tea. When the pie was warm again, he brought it to the table, sat down, and ate it. The crust was crisp and flakey, the spinach leaves twisted and heavy with fat from the salted cheese. Shreds of onion gave soft bursts of flavour when he chewed. The tea, sweetened with a coil of honey, was hot and satisfying.

The workshop was warm from the fire and his work. The window was filtering dull light from the scattered rainclouds outside. He was not hungry. It was a pleasant day.

“Are you resting, _lethallin?_ ” A woman’s voice and soft knock from the door drew his attention.

“For one hour, yes,” he said. “Do you require my services, Warden Athras?”

“Only your company, if that’s alright.”

“It is.”

An’eth Athras of Clan Zathrian, Grey Warden and Dalish hunter. Her mother had died during the Blight fifteen years ago, but her spirit had taken her to the Grey Wardens after a youth spent travelling and learning her craft. Her stature was average for elven women, shorter than most humans, but her training had given her great strength throughout her body.

Her bright orange hair was shaved clean across one side of her head, the rest brushed over and down the other side with three thin and beaded braids swinging from the front and then around one of her long ears. Bright grey eyes and strong, forward nose. Small mouth. Tattoos of Dirthamen bloomed from her top lip and circled up around her eyes, crowning her forehead. Her sword and shield and spear were all missing, as was much of her silverite warden armour. Instead she wore the black trousers and shirt of a warden, covered and kept warm with the layers of textured green fabric from her Dalish home. At least four different weaves of fabric were twisted over her shoulders, folded across her waist, and falling from her hips.

She was his friend.

“I brought these for us to share.” She unhooked a satchel from her belt and opened it, folding the mouth down to reveal a cache of roasted chestnuts. The bag was still warm. “It’s early in the season, but I thought it worth the effort anyways.”

“Thank you for considering me.” Taking one of the nuts, the shells had softened from the heat and peeled easily. The meat was soft and carried a faint sweetness.

An’eth hiked up one leg and then lifted herself to sit on the table, feet swinging as she reached into the bag.

“Do you like them?” She asked with a smile before peeling her own to eat.

“They are warm.” He answered.

“I meant the flavour, do you like the taste?”

“It is pleasant.” It was not the type of answer she desired. “I have little motivation to eat at present. I was given food by the midwife this morning.”

“Did you eat before going to see her?” An’eth asked him, guiding another chestnut to her lips with a finger.

“Yes.”

“Two meals today then, yes?”

“It is not my intention to deny myself food when busy, An’eth.” That was her primary concern.

“No, but it’s a bad habit of yours when Guerrin isn’t home, _lethallin_.” She frowned at him, and then reached towards him and pushed down the edge of his hood. The side of it caught on one of his ears and he gave a small shake of his head to make it fall. “You don’t need to wear that all the time, it’s warm in here.”

Her hand withdrew, but her thumb brushed across his cheek. Cool, deliberate, and slow. It paired softly with her comment and the heavy look in her eyes.

“The output of the workshop does not change, but the workload shifts exclusively to myself and Mistress Valora when Warden Guerrin is deployed.” He answered her first comment and not the second. Her unspoken meaning was understood but was not easily addressed. “I have adjusted my routine to accommodate the changes.” An’eth folded her hands back in her lap, the chestnuts cooling between them.

“Please don’t let the Vigil work you too hard, _lethallin_.”

“Although my responsibilities are more numerous here, they are not as intense as my previous obligations within the Formari Guildsmen nor the Fereldan Circle.” His explanation did not ease her concern and he was not certain how to proceed. “I am well, An’eth.”

“I know. I just want you to stay that way.” She was going to say more and then did not. He waited. He had nothing else to focus on.

The quiet extended. She would not speak.

“Jylan,” she did speak and it was good. Others had a tendency to feel awkward or uncomfortable when silence lingered beyond an acceptable time frame. She was looking at her hands until she turned her gaze back to him. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“No, you are my friend.” His answer was a statement of fact and was answered by her placing a hand on his shoulder. At first the gesture was not easily felt, but once her touch grew warm it became pleasant. “Are you indicating that I should stand?”

“If it’s alright with you.” She was distressed and he was unclear as to the reason why. He stood and her hand trailed down his arm. He pushed the chair back under the table and faced her again. She was standing and there was a misted, tender look across her face. This was not unheard of, however Jylan was not aware of what infrequently prompted this reaction from her. Because he did not know, he asked.

“I recognize that you are upset, An’eth. Has an event transpired to cause you emotional pain?”

“No, not really.” Her answer did not settle the matter. He was not convinced. She looked at him, then down, then up at him. He waited.

“May I hug you?” She asked her question abruptly but it was not unexpected. She had asked this of him before and been granted his permission.

“If it will relieve you of your present anxiety, then yes.” She slid her arms under his and he lifted them to permit the gesture. An’eth was not wearing her hard warden plate armour, her embrace did not pinch or cut against him. She walked flush against him and pressed her face to his shoulder, distressed and pulling him tight with her arms.

He was incompetent at relieving her emotional distress. To hug was not a difficult or complicated task, but the nuances did not present themselves to him. Hugs before the Rite of Tranquility had involved a certain level of movement and adjustment; a tenderness that was drawn from clues he had learned since then to stop struggling to find. His arm knew how to fold along the curve of her back because it was comfortable, his hand could find the base of her neck so his elbow tucked down behind her. This was how two bodies fit together in an embrace.

Beyond this, there was nothing more for him to provide. She rubbed his back and it was wiser to remain still than to mimic the gesture. She took a deep breath in against him, but he was not suffering the effects of anxiety and did not copy her. Her embrace tightened again, and then she released him.

“You do not appear calmer.” He observed very few differences as she stepped back from him. The embrace had not been successful. “I apologize, An’eth. Perhaps _Hahren_ Velanna will be able to provide you with more sufficient care.”

“No, I do feel better.” He did not believe her words to be true, but did not correct her. Her eyes were red and tired-looking, her face told him she was sad. “Thank you, Jylan. I’ll let you continue with your work now. Maybe I’ll see you after the evening bell?”

“You need not pressure yourself to spend time in my presence.” It was worthwhile to give this reminder at times. “I am not impacted by the reality of loneliness.” Incorrect response. Her distress increased again with a deep crease across her brow.

“ _Jylan…_ ” His words had the opposite effect than intended: it would be wise of him not to speak further. She held a hand out and he was obligated to take it, and then to let her squeeze it tightly. “The only pressure on me is to leave you alone so you can work. I’ll see you after the evening bell.”

He nodded to her and did not speak. She squeezed his hand again and then left.

He did not take time to reflect on the matter because he was no longer permitted to leisure: his hour was at an end. He prepared the rat poison, he updated the ledger, and he worked. He was warm and he was not hungry, he felt no concerning discomfort in his body.

It was a pleasant day.

* * *

 

“Y’know, sir, I don’t think the Grand Cleric likes you very much.” That comment, under the bright blue sky and cold autumn wind, made Soren laugh.

“Ah, Nathaniel,” he said, stopping with one booted foot planted on the grey stone steps weaving up through Amaranthine City. “Whatever gave you that idea?” They were on their way together to the cathedral of Our Lady Redeemer. The great chantry cathedral was perched atop the high hill in the city’s eastern quarter, close to Bann Talbind’s great house where the three of them were walking from.

“It could be the fact that she hates you,” Nathaniel Howe, Warden Captain and loyal friend, paused next to him in his quilted blue gambeson and polished silverite chest-piece. His armour was comfortable on his tall form, his long black hair combed and braided to keep out of his way. He’d shaved all but the tuft of black hair in the dip of his chin this morning, and his grave expression granted his light tone a well-received sense of irony and levity. “I mean, I know it’s a bother to come all the way into Amaranthine for chantry services, but the few I have heard are… not exactly _friendly_ towards your grace.”

“Corrupting magic in the hands of a weak-minded elf?” Soren asked him, raising his gloved hands and stroking the air with each finger for emphasis. The human cringed before nodding. “Nothing I haven’t heard before, Nate.”

“Probably, but you’d think she’d lay off a little given who’s in charge in Val Royeaux these days. Aren’t you _friends_ with the Divine?”

“That only serves to make him more of a threat, of course.” Zevran, Soren’s second companion for the day said from a step behind him. His black leather armour was undercut with fine gold fabric which hid the delicate chain mail beneath it, remaining true to an old and familiar preference for beauty that distracted from utility. His dark blue cloak was cut around the edges with black to match his outfit, and he kept a wary eye out as the three of them trotted along through the city.  “Come now, you know how these things work. What’s eating you?”

“It doesn’t take a week to answer a letter from Vigil’s Keep to Amaranthine and back again,” Nathaniel complained. “ _That’s_ what’s eating me.” Soren hmm’d to himself and carried forward, the wind catching the edges of his gold robe as he walked.

His robes were not a usual mage’s garb. The gold and silver-stitched fabric was cut wide from the waist down and flared open to give his legs room to walk, black trousers and a set of silverite tassets protecting his legs and waist. The seam between his robe and his breastplate was pleasing to the eye, the Grey Griffon rearing proudly across his chest. A silverite gorget circled his throat and disappeared down between the robe’s golden front and the shirt and mail he wore underneath, his hands protected by leather vambraces up his arms and silverite gauntlets keeping his fingers and wrists safe. He did not require or want his helmet today and had left it behind along with his staff.

If he was going to speak with the Grand Cleric of Amaranthine, then her Arl didn’t need to bring a mage’s weapon with him. He was quite capable of defending himself if need be with the heraldic shield hanging from his back, and the old elven sword strapped to his waist. If push came to shove, the small gold dagger tucked into his belt behind him would do more damage than the sword.

“As long as you two keep your gloves on,” Zevran told Nathaniel in a bright, cheerful way. “I anticipate nothing more than the usual discomfort from Her Holiness.”

“That’s what I’m _afraid_ of…” Nathaniel complained again, flexing his hands uncomfortably within his gloves. Soren regarded the action briefly, but then withheld a comment telling Nathaniel the tattoos on his hand were his own fault for consenting to a Dalish wedding ritual. As for Soren’s own hands, the crawling, obvious red marks scarring his fingers and palms from many years of powerful and reckless magical practice would only offend the Grand Cleric’s _delicate_ sensibilities.

This would be a simple matter and he hushed them both as they approached the cathedral at last. Our Lady Redeemer had a proud façade of blue-black Amaranthine granite, a grand tower stretching up from her front wall and rising impressively high to hold the great starburst of Andraste in the autumn sunlight. The bronze was strong and old, but a clear sight from most parts of the city. Her windows were made of stained glass, an expensive luxury even for Amaranthine, but from the outside they were only dark, formless panels of iron-cut glass. The few shrubs and flowerbeds in high planters dotting the courtyard between the grand stairs and the cathedral doors hosted a few of the city’s denizens, and a good number of the chantry’s initiates and sisters in their white and red robes.

As it was his city, Soren was not required to announce himself days or hours in advance. He had every right, when in Amaranthine City, to wander as he pleased and go where he may. The cathedral had its private areas yes, but its grand hall brimming with light from those tall windows was open to all of Andraste’s Faithful followers.

So it was that the Archmage strode forward into the holy place, inclining his head briefly to the Sister present to welcome worshippers for the quiet hours between prayers and songs. Nathaniel’s hand deposited three fat gold coins into the pedestal of purified water standing next to the sister, one for each of them, and the pious display of wealth quieted the young woman before she could say anything.

Rich chantries had a particular sort of smell to them: sweet and smoky from burning bars of sandalwood and frankincense. Smaller ones found in country hamlets or lesser quarters of Ferelden’s cities would also fill themselves with fragrance, but it never smelled quite the same. The husks of old imported cinnamon and dried fruits or flowers didn’t have the right depth of aroma. Our Lady Redeemer smelled strongly of years of only the finest oils and dried herbs, the scent soaked into the heavy wooden pews and worn into the granite blocks holding her tall ceiling aloft. The Cathedral smelled like Andraste’s Flame. It smelled the way the Circles once had, but without the same cold, metallic something to go along with it.

Soren, Zevran, and Nathaniel followed the red quartz tiles laid like a carpet from the front door through the long hall of the cathedral, reaching the high dais in its sanctuary that was proudly presided over by a bronze statue of Andraste herself. She held her sword and her shield, the blade held aloft with the promise declared in the cathedral’s name: she who would redeem the lost peoples of Thedas against the wrath and corruption of the Tevinter Imperium. At the footstone of the statue was a plaque bolted to a misshapen piece of raw stone: the place where Andraste had first revealed the Chant of Light to the world.

This was a _very_ holy place. Soren approached the stone, took a knee before it, and bowed his head. He selected a prayer, something simple, something to the point, and mouthed the words to make sure his time spent at the relic was neither too long nor too short. Then he stood and moved aside, doubting Zevran would kneel the same way but aware that Nathaniel probably wanted to and would give a prayer with a bit more feeling to it.

There was just enough time for Nathaniel to honour his Prophet before the Grand Cleric of Amaranthine was upon them. Brona was an older woman with a stout figure and her dark brown hair threaded with grey, all of it braided up behind her head. Her mouth was a constant frown, her nose blunt and her grey eyes were forever filled with reproach. Soren understood the Grand Cleric to be a very forward and forthright person, someone to be respected and her lapses in manners tolerated.

This was not a woman who had been plucked from a garden in Val Royeaux and cast into the Fereldan winter, she was born from this country and had served and suffered hard for her position. She had founded schools for the city’s poor children, and during the Blight had spearheaded the effort to sway cold hearts and secure passage for countless Fereldan Refugees fleeing the darkspawn. Her chantry’s walls had protected the city’s militia against the Mother’s army fourteen years ago, her Sisters and Initiates serving to stitch wounds, sooth the dying, and shelter the frightened and feeble. Soren remembered those contributions from the Thaw and her dedicated works since then, they were worth more than most of what people in power usually drew attention to.

“Grand Cleric, a fine morning to you.” Soren clenched his hand and touched his fist over his heart, inclining his head as he performed the salute. He knew, before the gesture was done, that her thin mouth twisted bitterly at the sight of him. It was unfortunate to him that he seemed cursed with making enemies of the powerful people who had once been his allies.

“Warden Commander,” she stated in a tone that struggled against her own ire. “Your presence here is unexpected.”

“Then it appears my letter has been waylaid, your grace,” Soren answered her pleasantly, with a slow nod to suggest a pardon on the messenger. “I have come today to discuss a matter of celebration for the Arling.”

“I would have thought you more aware of your situation, Commander.” She did not refer to him as Arl and that did not surprise him: she never did. _‘Magic is meant to serve mankind, never to rule over him’_ , a mage in a position of civil authority was considered by many to be a blatant disregard of Andraste’s primary rule. “Sometimes silence is the most appropriate answer that one can give.”

“Your grace,” Soren uttered, drawing on the same virtue he named.

“Walk.” The word was sharp and clipped off his armour, and the gilded priestess turned and clearly intended for him to follow her from half a step behind. Very well, he would do this her way.

The Grand Cleric wore a long dark grey coat which fell nearly to the floor and was cinched with a wide gold sash around her waist, a crimson belt cut with gold holding her long red gown closed under the coat. Andraste’s sunburst came down from her collar and up from the hem of her gown, but it was not needlessly fine. Clean, certainly, and of good quality, of course, but not extravagant. Grand Cleric Brona was not a woman who had earned her position for the sake of lavishing in rose-water baths and decorating herself in glittering jewels. She was the spiritual leader of their Arling and she fulfilled that position with dignified severity.

She would have been _such_ a good ally to have at his side, but Soren had played this game for fourteen years and knew that door wasn’t just locked, it was bricked over on the other side.

“Warden Commander,” She kept her hands behind her back as she walked, ushering away curious Sisters with a simple nod of her head. “We are two persons who hold an obligation to the people we oversee within our mutual realms. We are to uphold a standard of behaviour and strength that is to inspire the masses who come to us: to you, for matters of state and war, to me, for all else.” Not quite, but he did not argue with her. The chantry did not control _all else_ save statecraft and steel. “That said, I expect a certain level of commitment and virtue from you.”

“You Grace, matters of commitment and fidelity are exactly my purpose in approaching you.”

“Commitment to whom, exactly?” She stopped walking after successfully leading them away from the statue of Andraste. Zevran and Nathaniel held themselves back by a few paces but had clearly been following, and now Soren and the Grand Cleric stood in an alcove of the sanctuary that was still open to the light of the stained windows, but private enough for this talk. “And to what? Your own _lust?_ ”

Don’t.

“Grand Cleric.” He kept his voice smooth, and his intentions mild. “By taking the mother of my child and the only woman I have ever accepted as a partner as my legal wife, I mean to lead by example in the most direct way. This wedding will banish any whispers about my personal affairs and give my mistress the acknowledgement she deserves.”

“You curry no favour for yourself by ignoring the matter before you,” she told him shortly and with a lick of temper heating the back of her words. “You should have been rid of one another before your son was even born, Surana, only then might his mother have sparred him the truth his half-blooded nature.” His temper warmed itself. No. Resist. “The recklessness of your engagement _as a mage_ with another bearing the same curse expresses only an unspeakable flaw of character, and it is only by Andraste’s Provision at the side of our Maker that the child escaped the same stain on his soul. You have been granted your boon by the Maker, Commander, do not tempt Him further.”

His tongue curled, his lips were dry: he would not lick them.

“You decry actions well over a decade behind us, your grace.”

“And now here we stand a decade later, and you approach me to suggest blessing such a poor match. To validate the reckless decisions of your youth.”

“I do not suggest it,” He felt his tongue grow sharp and reeled it back in, the burn of sandalwood thick across his pallet. “I tell you, your grace, I will marry her. As Arl of Amaranthine-”

“As Grand Cleric of Amaranthine I remind the mage before me to mind his tone.” Her statement was sharp and sudden, a snake that bit fast through the thin cloth of his defense. “How dare you speak out of turn in Our Lady’s Holiest of Halls? You are a son of Shartan, he who was dragged from his chains by Andraste’s golden arms, and you will respect that debt when you speak in the place where she first brought the Maker’s Words to mankind.”

He curled his tongue, set his teeth together, and did not speak. He knew why he did not speak but he could not voice the reason, not with the frankincense in the air burning his eyes. Brona sighed to release her anger and shook her head to him in pity.

“The Maker crafted humans and elves as distinct from one another,” she stated, quoting now from the scholars whose names had haunted the Circle’s halls. “Whole and proper and worthy of His love, but distinct. When a child of both bloods is brought into this world through lust’s painful burning, her _el’vhen_ nature is veiled and all her parts and glory are as her human parent. That is the Maker’s Will and you cannot argue against it, not you, not the Divine herself.”

“Divine Victoria _has ruled_ -” He did not have the letter with him, he had left it behind because he had felt he would not need it. Soren knew that even if he had brought Leliana’s declaration with him however, it would not have changed anything.

“- _incorrectly_.” The word came down on him hard, and he did not know how to answer it. “Her vote has passed by the barest of margins and the discussion has not ended, will not end for many years to come. You disgrace yourself and your office by jumping so eagerly to such a grotesque perversion of our chantry’s holy sacraments. For _shame_ , Surana, _for shame_.” She dared-?

But she did it with _those_ words. With this smoke hanging around him. With _that_ statue looming behind them.

His temper froze, it locked and hurt in his chest, fragments of ice breaking off and splashing loud and awful into the calm current of his magic. He said the only words he could find and he spoke them much too softly to work against her.

“It is the Arl’s right to be married in sanctity of Our Lady Redeemer.”

“It is the Grand Cleric’s right to _defend_ the sanctity of Our Lady Redeemer.” Brona’s words cut him and he recognized now how tightly his hands were clutching his wrists behind his back. His fingertips were hurting in his gauntlets. “I will not allow this parade of disrespect to trespass across Andraste’s holy gaze. Find yourself a partner from among your own people, free of magic’s taint, loyal to the Chant and reverent to Our Lady, and you will have your wedding, _Lord_ Surana. Until you have cleansed these abhorrent notions from your mind and cease to disrespect the distinctions crafted by the Maker Himself, this topic will bear no further discussion. Walk in the Maker’s Light, my son, and repent.”

She dismissed him with a hand and Soren… took that dismissal and left. He needed away from the smoke and weight of the Chantry air.

“Commander-” Nathaniel and Zevran were on his heels before he left the building, but they didn’t speak until he was out again in the brisk autumn air. When Soren didn’t acknowledge him upfront he felt Nathaniel’s hand touch his arm in a sudden and unwanted manner. He pulled away from it automatically and stopped walking, facing the other Warden with a short stop and pivot.

“What?” He demanded, and Nathaniel’s face was shocked before he pointed a hand back at the cathedral.

“What the hell was that?” The huma- Nathaniel. Warden Howe asked him.

“She said no,” Soren told him. “I’m not going to embarrass myself by kicking up a fuss and yelling in a cathedral, Nathaniel.” He felt cold. He felt brittle. He wanted to go home.

“I’m not asking why you didn’t yell, I’m asking why you didn’t _speak._ ” Soren took a breath through his nose, held it, and didn’t answer. He felt a spark of offense when Nathaniel’s stern gaze melted into a soft and worried gaze that tried to smother him. The heat over the cold made everything feel sticky and raw. He didn’t like it. “No one talks to you like that and keeps their hide in one piece. Not one damn person from here to the Anderfels can make you shut up when there’s something to be said. What the hell happened in there?”

“Do you expect me to stand in the middle of the Chantry and throw insults at the Grand Cleric?” Soren asked him with more heat than was right, thick bubbles of something foul filling and bursting inside of him. “Subtle or not, Nathaniel, I’m not going to alienate her even further.”

“I’ve heard you take down that Shartan _bullshit_ more times than I can count,” his Warden growled back at him and it was _badly timed._ That grotesque sludge was dripping from his ribs, sweet with sandalwood and smoke. “And you just let her walk all over you with it! You’ve got the Divine Herself praising your engagement to Lady Morrigan- if this is just a ploy of yours then at least have the decency to say so!”

“ _Shut up-_ ” -stop. “Enough.” Nathaniel recoiled from him and Soren didn’t immediately know why.

“Did-?” Nathaniel grunted, eyes tight with confusion. “Did you just call me _human?_ ” He-

How dare he? How dare Soren speak a distinction of the Maker’s crafted will like an insult, a cut against the appropriate whole of His works? How dare he, lungs smothered from burning cloves, talk back beyond his place and-

“Well you are, aren’t you?” He choked out the words, turned away from his friends, and left them.

Zevran did not let Nathaniel follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thaaaat's gonna be that for tonight. Any thoughts? Yes? No? Preferences? Requests? Drop a comment below and I'll see if I can get some more work done on this story before the weekend!


	3. Zevran Knows Best

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished a chapter so I got to post a chapter :o  
> Leave a comment below! Zevran is worth a few words.

 

It was midday and Zevran had not allowed Nathaniel to chase after his Commander through the streets of Amaranthine after their alarming visit to the Chantry. Truly though, Zevran had not wanted to go after him either. Soren was not a weak person and Zevran had made it his duty over the years to make sure no one ever made accusations of it. It was not weakness to desire space for yourself after an unpleasant altercation, and Soren’s meeting with Grand Cleric Brona clearly counted as one.

Instead of following his distressed friend, Zevran took Warden Howe with him to find something in the market worth eating. This was Amaranthine in fall, there was absolutely no shortage of delectable and scrumptious goods for them to sample, and for no more than a few coppers each, he might add.

Salted and sliced turnips breaded with subtle rosemary, honey-drizzled apple tarts, succulent squash mashed with butter and cream and piped into hot bread rolls, or Zevran’s personal favourite: a battered fish cake sprinkled with onion and then fried until crisp. Almost as good as the ones made in Antiva City, not quite; but almost.

The food calmed the Warden walking about with him, and when they found a place to sit atop a short wall separating the bustling market from one of the quieter alleys, it was easy to ignore the unpleasant morning by digging into their wonderful lunch.

“Are you going to explain it then?” Nathaniel finally asked him, and Zevran frowned at him for interrupting the meal. “Why the Warden Commander would ever tolerate being spoken to like that?”

“Do you really think it was a matter of tolerance?” They had both been close enough to hear what was spoken between Soren and the Grand Cleric, and neither of them had liked it. “Was it a tolerant and put-upon look you saw on his face?”

Brona was known for her particular views and opinions and Soren was well-aware of them. What was strange to Zevran was that his friend had sought out a meeting with her only to go so quiet and bear so much of the Grand Cleric’s ire without protest. Something must have gone wrong, but Zevran was baffled as to what. Andraste’s Golden Arms, _bah._ Nathaniel was certainly right to wonder after his Commander’s odd behaviour. Soren had ended lives for lesser insults against himself, nevermind Morrigan or his son Kieran.

“No.” Good answer. Zevran had plainly seen the fear that had burned through his friend before they had left the cathedral. Another strange thing: of all the things he could have felt after facing her, why fear? His friend and companion was not the sort of person to frighten easily, and certainly not before bitter old women, but the bloodless look on his face, the way he had hung his shoulders, and the weak breaths he’d taken when turning away from the cathedral had not escaped Zevran’s notice. The Archmage had been frightened when he left them and had needed time and space to control himself.

“I don’t even think he was that angry with me when he left either.” Nathaniel’s voice was quiet and Zevran plucked the last of the apple tarts from the crumpled paper the good wife who sold them had packed them in. “It wasn’t like him at all.”

“You mean the ‘ _human’_ comment?” Zevran asked, then took another sweet, flakey bite of the pastry. “No, I agree. Annoyance with you for pestering him perhaps, but not anger.”

“Well I had every reason to bother him.” Nathaniel defended himself and Zevran merely shrugged. Soren had been berated sideways for his ears and eyes not moments earlier, that he would make an unusual comment was not so unbelievable when frazzled like that. “Revered Mother Iris acknowledged my marriage already back at Vigil’s Keep. The Grand Cleric’s attitude doesn’t _just_ affect Surana on this issue.” It affected any elf or human or dwarf who had ever looked beyond their own kin and kind to find the affection and love they had been missing. Leliana had known her _Dedication On Love and Marriage_ as Divine would meet with resistance, it was simply unfortunate that one of those defiant heads should preside over Amaranthine.

Nathaniel was gazing up and away from the market as Zevran mulled the issue and kept his peace. The Warden’s eyes were watching the skyline over the city to the east, perhaps looking for the spire and sunburst of Our Lady Redeemer.

“The Arls of Amaranthine have been married in that cathedral for every generation since it was built.” He stated, and by remembering how many of those Arls had been Howes it lent credence to his words. “Brona isn’t going to get away with turning the Hero of Ferelden from his traditional right unless Soren lets her, and he’d better not. He could have lectured her eight ways past Wintersend if he’d only opened his mouth today.”

Zevran paused in his munching to consider what was said, weighed it against what he was pretty sure Nathaniel meant, and then kicked his feet like a child where they were dangling from the stone wall.

“Let me handle the issue, perhaps?” He suggested, and then tugged on the paper wrap between them to offer the last of the fish cakes to the Warden. Nathaniel looked like he may pout at the suggestion of patience, but he took the food and was quick to polish it off in the cold sun. The Warden gestured with the last piece of it between his fingers as Zevran gathered up the rest of the wrappers and stained papers.

“We should have bought him one of these.” The subject kindly changed back to the topic of food and flavours. Zevran quite enjoyed the simple chatter and conversation that filled the rest of their urban afternoon.

Bann Talbind was the young, honourable, and very agreeable man Soren had placed in charge of Amaranthine City after the Thaw. His grand house was found in the North Quarter of the city overlooking the steep and steady decline from the high land down to the deep harbour waters. The Bann kept a good and comfortable household and Zevran was familiar enough with his fine armour and distinct facial tattoo that the servants and guards only saluted and stepped aside for him and Nathaniel.

The Warden escorted him back but then left again shortly after, a list of simple errands to run for his sister and wife tucked in his hand as he departed. Zevran’s only task was to quietly confirm that yes, the Arl had indeed returned to the house some hours ago from his jaunt around the city. Not wanting to intrude on him too soon, Zevran quietly went up to the guest apartments to wait for him.

And wait for him.

And wait longer still without intruding on him, because Soren had the right to his own time and space without Zevran hovering over him every minute of the hour. If only he would have hurried up a little though, because it was quite boring having nothing to do and no one to bother.

Soren dined with Bann Talbind without returning to the rooms first, giving Zevran every reason to scoff a little when his friend finally did come back. Not only had he skipped Zevran’s company all day, but he was reeking of frankincense and cloves, two things that were certainly not on the Bann’s menu.

“If you’re going to tell me you’ve spent all day praying in Talbind’s private sanctuary,” he lectured from his place reclined on the couch by the fire. “Then I promise not to snitch to Morrigan about it.” She would get a laugh out of it, no doubt, but not for the right reasons.

Soren huffed at him. He’d traded his robes and armour for a fine white linen shirt and gold threaded doublet. The soft boots and trousers matched the honey brown of the gloves hiding his scarred hands. The only violence his outfit did not cover was the missing inch off his right ear, but he was a Grey Warden who had survived a Blight and countless battles after it, so scars were expected. Surprisingly, with his soft features and wide blue eyes he had almost completely avoided any battle-marks that would have disfigured his face. He had, what most in Antiva or Orlais would have said, a very _pretty_ face.

Hmm, no. Between elves or not it was still an uncomfortable word.

“I was not praying.” Soren announced in short order, pulling Zevran back to now with his low voice. Zevran gave a smile and rubbed his hands together like a greedy imp.

“ _Scheming?_ ” he crooned, and watched Soren remove his gloves with a scoff. The firelight quickly picked out the jagged red marks cut across his knuckles and swirling over his palms as he dropped the gloves on a nearby table. His pale hands looked raw from the years of abuse but they were still whole. They blushed in the light but were not tender.

“No.”

“ _Not_ scheming?” Zevran cried out in his disappointment, then sat up on the couch. “Then at least allow me to aid you in the formation of a plan to encourage the Grand Cleric to amend today’s decision.”

“I’m tired, Zevran. No.” This attitude was not like him. He had taken the time to calm himself and reflect, he should have been ready to do something about what had happened now.

“Tomorrow then.” Tomorrow, after Soren had rested and let today’s emotional upset calm and the indignity settle into ire. Yes, tomorrow he would wake up in a foul mood and Zevran would be there to help him bring his frustrations to bear fruit for them.

“Tomorrow we leave for home.” Um… “I’ve already made arrangements with Talbind and his household.” Zevran closed his book, set it aside, and stood.

“What about the Grand Cleric?” He asked. Perhaps it was misdirection then, retreat but only until they came back with something strong enough to sway or remove her from power? There was always the slim chance that Zevran would be asked to creep out from behind the Warden Commander and do what his upbringing had lent much experience to. Soren ran a bloodless court whenever he was able and this would not be the time for carelessness. His reasons would run a little thin given Brona’s impressive record tending the city and the Arling, but Zevran’s morals were more flexible than his friend’s.

While Zevran pondered the integrity of Our Lady Redeemer’s defenses, Soren had his arms up and was undoing the buttons on the back of his doublet. He had to inch the garment up to reach enough of them to free his shoulders, and then he simply pulled the entire thing up over his blond head, shaking his fair hair out where it was cut short about his ears. He finished with the wealthy vest by pulling it the right way out again and undoing the rest of the buttons properly, and all the while did not look at Zevran.

“What about her?” He asked, giving his head another shake and then the most casual drag of his hand through his loose, soft hair.

“Your wedding?” Zevran prompted, quashing the sudden dread that sprouted in him.

“The wedding is off, Zevran. Good night.” _What?_ Don’t say that so calmly!

“Soren-” The apartment was four private rooms joined to a communal salon where Zevran had spent his evening alone. Soren was through one of the doors and had it shut before Zevran could catch him. The handle refused to flex thanks to the lock, and he slapped his palm against the thick wood. “Soren!”

No answer.

“If this is one of your schemes then it’s not a funny one!” He complained loudly through the door. “Very well! Have it your way, we will leave tomorrow morning and I will inform Nathaniel of it when he returns, but he won’t be pleased.” Nothing. No response, he was stubborn like that. “I am not pleased either.” Say something. “You wanted this: fight for it!”

Silence.

Zevran retreated from the fight, yes, but this was not over. This was _not_ over.

He spent that night in Amaranthine City angrier over the issue with the Grand Cleric than he knew he should have been. But he was angry. He went to sleep angry and he woke up feeling the same way: angry. He was too bitter to speak properly.

Soren did not reveal his plan for the entire half-day ride from Amaranthine to Vigil’s Keep, and Zevran was beginning to doubt he even _had_ a plan. If the Arl would not speak his mind then Zevran would not chase after him for it. He kept his eyes on the rolling road and the sweeping green hills and ignored both Wardens completely.

Vigil’s Keep was Soren’s seat of power in Amaranthine. She was a monolith of blue-black granite which pierced the cloudy sky from within two mighty sets of walls. Her grey Warden banners danced in the rainy wind, gold Amaranthine tassels fluttering as the three of them rode in through the wide open gates which led to the settlement’s damp market.

It was still active and noisy in the coming rain, but the prospect of cold water soaking their wares was encouraging many of the merchants and sellers to pack up for the day, and many of the market-goers were quickly finishing their own business. Three horses with a standard of their Arl drew less attention than normal, meaning it was a quick but cold return home for them.

Soren was called away immediately upon arrival to see to something among his militia: the Silver Order of Amaranthine. His Captain Renth took him away so quickly Zevran found himself chewing on his tongue in irritation. How long was he going to avoid this issue? It was not settled. Zevran would not let it be settled.

If he had to go upstairs and yell through Morrigan’s eluvian until she heard him and came back, he’d do it. This was not settled.

He let Soren have his space, have his day, and have his time. Zevran turned to a matter that was less pressing but equally important to him: a letter from Denerim.

 _“Tio Zevran,”_ he brushed his fingertips over the address in the first line, smiling fondly at the crooked script that followed. “ _I took your advice and Ser Bronwin’s squire was sick for three days with a horrible chill, but he’s recovering again as I write this so he should be wiser about stealing food from me in the future. I even thanked him for sparing me from the pains he went through! That may have been a mistake as I’m almost certain His Majesty realized what I’d done, but he hasn’t punished me yet, only made me sit through more of his Warden tales._

_Tio, what His Majesty says about my father in the Brecellian forest isn’t true, is it? I’ve never met Keeper Lanaya, and I can’t for a moment imagine my father cowering from anything, let alone a small dragon in the ruins._

_Please write again soon. I know father will tell her as well, but if mother comes to the Vigil to visit please tell her I miss her but I’m alright in Denerim. I’ve had no dreams like the ones I used to get, and the pain is just from lifting those heavy shields and irons the King makes me practice with._

_With Love,_

_Kieran.”_

Zevran kissed the letter, folded it carefully and slipped it down through one of the pockets of his armour close to his heart. The father was incorrigible but his son was a treasure Zevran missed seeing about the Vigil. The keep was much too quiet without his antics these days, but he was well and Zevran was in much better spirits as he pondered his reply. He had not yet been in Soren’s company for their exploits in the Brecellian forest, so he would admit as much and then proceed to make up an embarrassing lie to spite his friend’s terrible attitude. If Alistair was already filling Kieran’s head with unlikely adventures, then Zevran would find a way to one-up him.

What good Kieran’s letter did to raise his spirits was spoiled completely by the conversation that evening at dinner. The meal did not begin well.

“Are you going to stop being so miserable now?” Soren’s comment spoiled the flavour of the rich soup and bread from his kitchen. “We have more important things to worry about.”

“I think that _this_ is an important thing to worry about, don’t you?”

“I do not.” Soren took a mouthful of cream and lamb before tearing a piece of his bread off to dip.

“Soren, there is a declaration from the Divine _herself_ on your desk granting you the right to marry your chosen love. _Why_ are you letting Brona take this from you?”

“The decision was never mine, Zevran.” Yes it _was!_ “I asked the Grand Cleric and she said _no_.”

“She had no _right_ to say no!” Zevran shouted, and he kept his hands from banging the table by only a breath. When Soren came out with it, finally all of it, it just made him _angrier!_

“I will not embarrass myself or the Arling by having the Revered Mother of Vigil’s Keep officiate a sham here in the castle instead of the cathedral where the ceremony belongs.” Soren’s voice was stiff, his shoulders set, his food ignored in front of him. “I am not going to go through the expense and extravagance of a wedding only to have it annulled by the Grand Cleric and then dragged through the mud to Val Royeaux to give Leliana another headache. The wedding is off and Morrigan will only laugh and taunt me when she hears why.”

“You _deserve_ to be taunted!” He said, heat rumbling in the back of his throat. “ _Coward_. Where is my friend? Why are you running away from this?” Soren’s gaze was dark and sharp upon him, his voice _hissing_ back with:

“I am not about to _embarrass_ myself-”

“ _You are not the only elf in Thedas, you ass!_ ” Zevran stood because he was ready to fight about this. He was _willing_ to argue, unlike the elf across the table from him! “You’re an Arl _and_ a Hero! You’re one of the most powerful elves in fucking Thedas, and you are _not_ going to let the Chantry bully you without a fight!”

“That is _not_ your decision.”

“Then who is going to stand in your place?” Zevran cut at him with words. Don’t sit there frosty and cold, you ass! Fight back! “ _Velanna?_ You’re going to send a Blight-scarred Dalish runaway Warden with her disgraced once-noble husband in your place? Is _that_ your alternative?”

“Are you really going to act like Morrigan’s Chasind background is any better-?”

“ _YES! I am!_ ” He made his friend flinch, actually _flinch,_ and his temper hurt even more. Why was he not _fighting?_ “Morrigan was Arcane Advisor to both _Empress Celene_ and the Inquisition! You have a _son_ together who is King Alistair’s _squire_. Soren, if you publicly back down from this and refuse to throw your weight against the Chantry to _help Leliana help the elves_ , then nothing is going to change. _Nothing_.”

“Why does this matter to you?” Soren’s question shocked him. _What?_ “ _Help the elves?_ Brona doesn’t give _damn_ that my ears are too long and my stature too small, Zevran, it just flavours the arguments she can use against me for being a _mage_.”

Zevran’s eyes went crossed so he closed them, he felt a shiver start behind his knees and shoot straight up to his shoulders. _What?_

“I was there in the Chantry with you when she _fed you that garbage about Shartan!_ ” He shouted! “Of course it has everything to do with you being an _elf!_ She challenged you herself to bring her an _el’vhen_ bride and she’d marry you on the _spot!_ ”

“That was a _taunt,_ Zevran!” Good! Get on your damn feet and argue with him properly! “Magic is meant to _what_ mankind, and never to _what was it again_ over him? She’s hated me since I first set foot in Amaranthine!”

“Because you’re an elf!”

“Because I’m a mage!”

“ _Tell me_ why you won’t fight her!” Zevran yelled his plea, “ _Tell me_ , before you mark yourself a coward!”

His bold claim halted his friend’s words. Soren caught himself like he was going to choke, his anger a falsehood that melted away from him so he stood there looking smaller than he should have. Zevran was the taller of them, yes, but Soren should never have _shrunk_ just from being challenged. Had he not been there in the chantry with him Zevran might have feared Brona had actually _done_ something to him. Where was this weakness even coming from? Why was he like this? Why wouldn’t he _speak?_

“Soren,” because his friend did not answer him as fast as he should have. Zevran moved forward and with both hands took his friend by the wrists, hurt but hiding it when he felt Soren resist his touch. He forced his friend and brother to look at him before going on. “I will follow you _anywhere_. I love you, you know this, and we all know that you and Morrigan _cannot_ live apart. You love her the way the stars love the moon and the sun loves the sea and as the Maker loved Andraste. Brother, you almost lost your son and it nearly killed you, you went to _war_ to bring Kieran and Morrigan back safely to the Vigil. If you won’t fight for them this time, Brother, then I need to know _why._ I cannot follow if you will not show me the way.”

Look at him, explain it to him. Why was the proudest man in Ferelden backing down without a fight? Why was he running away from a problem without even attempting to use his silver words? He had convinced Alistair to destroy House Guerrin’s precedence and standing, why wouldn’t he even engage the Grand Cleric in the _discussion_ , not even an outright challenge, about his own marriage?

“Soren _please._ ” He wasn’t looking at him, Soren’s eyes were focused on nothing at all until he moved and pulled his hands away.

“I will not explain myself,” if he meant to say it with strength or volume then he failed at both, but at least he pried his eyes up and _looked_ at him. “Not to you, not to anyone.”

“Soren,”

“No.” His eyes were hard, they were clear and cold and judging. “Get out.”

“Brother-”

“ _Out._ ”

Zevran took a slow step back, held the position, and when Soren didn’t yield or change his mind then yes, Zevran left the room.

He left the salon and found the empty corridor weaving through the Vigil, wandering his way down to the lower floors. Somewhere along the way he decided on a poor course of action and detoured for the kitchens, ignoring the working staff still clearing away the dishes from the Warden and servant mess halls. He found the larder, moved down the musty ladder to the wine cellar, and picked a bottle at random.

He brought that back up with him without comment and walked until he found the room he wanted, in the lower wing he wanted. He knocked and found the one person in the Keep who had known Soren almost as long as Zevran standing behind in the doorway. Zevran showed him the bottle with a tight, tired look on his face.

“Care for an evening drink, Constable?”

Oghren stared at him for a few moments, then at the bottle, then back at him. His thick red beard was unbound and brushed out, the warm light of the fire and a trill of childish laughter following him. He wore no armour tonight, just a thick brown tunic of woven wool and comfortable trousers and boots.

“Lemme put the nuglet back to bed first an’ then sure, elf. Better than you drownin’ yourself in it all alone.”

“You’re too kind, Oghren. Where shall we-?”

“Get in here and take a seat, I ain’t getting’ pissed up on the battlements in this rain.” That was… very warm of him. “Cards’re on the table next ta the kid’s flute. Shuffle and deal while I get him settled.” How domestic… it reminded him keenly of the letter tucked in his armour.

“Thank you, my friend.”

He spent the night with Oghren’s family, talking to the stubborn old dwarf of things that were not to leave this room. Oghren let him talk, and let him worry, and made sure his glass never went empty for very long. Somewhere along the way he lost his grip on his languages, but that was alright: he’d said plenty already.

“Sleep it off, Zev.” A couch, the burning fire, a soft blanket tossed over his wine-warmed head. “Surana’ll come around, he always does.”

“ _But he won’t even talk,”_ Zevran slurred in his mother tongue, the pretty words and pretty wounds and lovely intonations all falling flat. “ _Silver-tongued fool won’t even open his mouth, won’t explain, won’t won’t won’t…”_

 _“Dafka,_ elf _._ That’s old dwarven for _go the fuck to sleep._ ”

“ _Dafka, Oghren…”_ He meant to say thank you, all he got was laughter.

And he slept.


	4. The Cost of Sleep

 

Four days passed between the Warden Commander’s return to Vigil’s Keep and its impact on Jylan’s routine. Otherwise, there was no change.

He awoke before dawn, he dressed himself in the dark. He prepared the workshop and broke his nightly fast, collected his hound from the kennelmaster and made his deliveries before first bell. He returned to the workshop and consulted the ledger for the day’s work, and at the mid-day bell took his hour of leisure.

One of the methods used to cope with Connor’s absence from Vigil’s Keep was the open availability of certain items. Most of the Vigil’s denizens did not take well with the notion of dealing with Jylan personally, and not everything could be comfortably written into a ledger that would then be read by every other person who came to add a requisition to his list. The ledger itself was another method of both record keeping and reducing the frequency of people stopping Jylan’s work to ask him questions or make derisive comments towards him. It had been Connor’s idea. It was a good one.

As had been the practice in the guild hall Jylan had lived in prior to his appointment to Vigil’s Keep, one counter was allotted space to simply hold items of frequent use and sensitive need. Unlike the guild hall however, the items provided by the workshop were distributed without cost. It was only a matter of preventing a single person from leaving with eight of every item.

The stocks included: a stack of quarter-pound bars of soap, each individually wrapped and clearly labelled, along with pots of tooth powder, leather oil, and steel polish. Bottles of standard black ink were replenished along with the red poultices favoured by the Grey Wardens and Silver Order soldiers. Lard bars for healing cracked and dried skin were placed a few spots down from the soap as to avoid confusion. Balms for lips were placed in smaller pots beside those.

As for sensitive items, several pots of cream for common rashes and blisters were available, along with prepared powders for difficulties ranging from indigestion to the removal of pests and lice. The most hesitantly requested item and therefore most necessary to have a place on the counter were small pots of fatty oils mixed to form a light cream: to relieve chafing and provide intimate lubrication. Connor himself had nearly broken his healer’s implicit code of non-judgement the first time that request had found its bashful way to him, but Jylan’s only view on the matter was that the wooden pots, once emptied, should be returned to the workshop. There was a large basket left out explicitly for this purpose.

His mornings were primarily for the filling of requisitions made the day before for delivery on the following morning. The shift of work from midday to evening was often involved with restoring the depleted stacks of available materials.

“You do good work for the Vigil.” He was boiling witch hazel mulch for bottling tomorrow, stirring the rolling cauldron with a long wooden paddle. It was not wise for him to speak when working however this would be his final task for the day. “Do all of the Tranquil know herbalism and chemistry as you do, or did you take a special interest in it?” The brew was sufficiently mixed. He withdrew the paddle from the steaming cauldron and placed it in the sink for washing, then turned to answer the speaker.

“My position was assigned by then-Formari Quartermaster Owain of Kinloch Hold.” He told her.

Warden Velanna Howe had walked a long path from her Dalish Clan, to the Grey Wardens, down far into the Dwarven Deep Roads, and back again to Vigil’s Keep. Her entire body was lined with scars of Blight, but she exhibited no other symptoms of advanced corruption or decay. Her elven ears were blackened along the tips and curled in a manner which often suggested pain to him, but she denied this assumption. Her hands and mouth were deeply lined with black, and it obscured the pattern of both her valasslin and the twisted images tattooed across the back of her hand and fingers- the dedication proving her marriage to Warden Nathaniel Howe a summer ago.

She was one of the Vigil’s few mages. She was his friend.

“Did he give any particular reason?” She was standing by the counter of offered goods, and had taken one of the parcels of soap to her nose to test the scent. He had included an extract of honey after receiving both a request and a suitable quantity of raw comb.

“My abilities with lyrium and enchantment were deemed insufficient and costly to the Circle.” He answered her question.

“I’ve seen you enchant items before,” she sought to correct him. She had misunderstood his answer. “Not often, but I thought that was just the lack of lyrium in the Keep stopping you.”

“I am capable of laying enchantments on suitable items,” he clarified his meaning. “However, there was a quality the Chantry deemed lacking from my work after I was made tranquil, and thus I was relegated to chemistry.”

“So the Chantry decided and not your Quartermaster?”

“I was not privy to the nuances of such decisions as they were undertaken by the Circle administration.” He told her. “As one of the Tranquil it was never my right to question such directives, and it is unlikely that Quartermaster Owain experienced greater freedom despite his heightened responsibilities. However, now that he is Guildmaster in Amaranthine, such decisions are wholly his own.”

“So could you change specializations now if you chose to?” He considered the matter briefly before answering.

“My contract with Vigil’s Keep is reliant on my skills and abilities as a chemist and apothecary, _Hah’ren_ Howe.” He explained. “If you mean to imply that the dedicated study and increased practice of enchantment would be of greater benefit than my current role, then it is a matter better brought before the Seneschal. Do you anticipate a growing need for a skilled Formari within the keep?” His question caused a look of surprise to cross her face and he was unclear as to the reason for it.

“You _are_ a skilled Formari, _dah’len.”_

“The term _formari_ is a loan word from Tevene, much like the title _Hah’ren_ from El’vhen.” It was reasonable to anticipate that she would grow annoyed with his explanation, but he persisted so as to make his meaning clear to her. “The Formari are ‘ _they who form lyrium’_. I am one of the Formari for my practical ability to lay enchantments, but I am not skilled in the matter. I will assume that you were referring to my skills as a chemist and compounder, in which case I am a skilled Tranquil. Do you anticipate a growing need for a skilled Formari within the keep?” He repeated his question so as to deflect any unpleasant experience of her annoyance, and also to ascertain an answer.

“No, I don’t.” She did not respond to him with irritation, but rather with a tight and clipped voice followed by the way she closed her eyes and released a breath. She was exasperated with his lacking ability to converse with others. He understood.

“You were merely making conversation with me.” She looked at him with a deep frown and worried eyes. “I apologize for my literal assumption of your meaning. Thank you for the compliment.”

“You’re welcome, Jylan.” Her voice was heavy but not unkind. “Don’t worry, I have no more questions about the Tranquil tonight. You should go make sure you have something to eat tonight.”

“The evening bell has not yet rung, _Hah’ren._ ”

“But you’ve nothing else to do?” She did not seem to understand his obligation to remain. “You said yourself you finished your ledger and prepared all the tasks you could for tomorrow, you’ve swept, I watched you wipe down your counters, and that fire is nearly burnt out already.”

“The evening bell has not yet rung, _Hah’ren_.”

“But-” There was a knock behind her. They both looked.

When he saw the other elf he straightened and used both hands to draw his hood up, the front piece falling over the tranquil brand burned into his skin. His hands dropped and crossed at the wrists over his chest, fingers gently pinched together. He bowed.

“Arl Surana,” he said.

“Warden Commander.” Velanna saluted with a fist to her heart, she was no longer leaning against the counter.

“At ease, Warden.” The Warden Commander’s voice was measured and even. He entered the workshop and Jylan kept his head bowed as he had not been addressed yet. “Compounder Ansera.” That was his address. He straightened and let his arms fall.

The Warden Commander stood with his hands behind his back. He wore the gold robes of an Archmage and they framed his small self with pride, the colour making his pale hair appear nearly white in contrast. Where An’eth was strong and breath shorter than Jylan, and Velanna was slender but tall, the Warden Commander was much smaller by comparison to any of them. Surana’s blue eyes searched the room briefly, then he spoke.

“Compounder, I may have the wrong of things.” He spoke in a simple, even timbre. “Is the workshop still open?”

“Until the bell in a few minutes, your grace.” The answer displeased him. His eyes tightened, and his mouth resisted a scowling grimace before he spoke again.

“Show me your ledger.” He stated, dropping his eyes and sweeping the wiped down table with his gaze. Jylan turned and procured the book from the counter behind him. “What is that awful smell?”

“Witch hazel, your grace.” For many months Connor had used his personal book of notations for the workshop ledger, but that had been deemed a waste of the book’s pages and the Vigil’s Healer and Apothecary had ordered this book before his departure for the Anderfels. Inside of it were many printed pages of even boxes and collumns, and the book itself was much wider and longer than the spell-book locked into one of the cabinets in this room. Jylan presented the red leather book to the Warden Commander, and opened it to the correct page.

“Ink and something to write with?” Jylan procured those items from the same counter, Surana did not look at him as he did so and Velanna did not speak. He took the quill and gave a dismissive gesture with the feathered end of it. “Resume your conversation, Ansera. I will not linger.” Jylan had no further tasks for the evening but retreated by a step so he could not be accused of reading over the Arl’s shoulder. He watched the Warden Commander rest a hand on the table and dip the quill before writing.

When he was finished he capped the ink, nodded briefly to Velanna, and then departed.

“Does the Commander come to you often?” She asked him quickly when Surana had gone.

“No.” He had no further tasks for the evening and remained where he was.

“Are… aren’t you curious what he wrote?” She asked with more urgency this time, and he answered her in full.

“That it is a curiosity does not escape me,” he told her. “However, I am not compelled to act on that information. I will refer to the ledger and determine its priority amongst the other requests awaiting my attention tomorrow.”

“ _Dah’len_ , you can’t just put off a request from Surana.”

“It was not my intention to suggest as much.” Communication was a difficult thing, she had already grown frustrated with him once. “If it is a request which may require several days to complete then I will make necessary preparations. However, that does not mean that for the following hours I will allow other priorities to remain unattended. Such behaviour would cause the workshop to grind to a halt, and I would be removed from my position and returned to the Guildsmen.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She crossed the workshop and touched his arm, he felt her pull at his wrist. Her gesture was meant to convey weight and severity but this was not a severe matter “About doing nothing else, I mean. That’s not what I meant. But don’t-” she let her eyes grow heavy again with a regret he could see but not soothe. “You’re not a thing on loan from your guild. Don’t talk about yourself like you’re some replaceable part.”

“You are correct,” he told her. “I am not a thing, but I am Tranquil as well as elven. If I were to lose my position at Vigil’s Keep by mismanaging my obligations then I would undoubtedly return to the guildsmen to sustain myself.”

“You have a family,” she said, and the strength of her words was apparent to him despite their ineffective nature. “You could go to them.” Brothers and sisters in the Gwaren Alienage, those who had not been born with the curse of magic nor sent to Kinloch Hold as he had.

“As the result of my condition, _Hah’ren_ , I would be unlikely to secure employment to help sustain that family. I would return to the guildsmen instead.”

“You could join the _Dalish_.” She was sharp with him. It was unpleasant to listen to despite his certainty that her temper would not break over him. “An’eth’s Keeper would help you, An’eth herself would go with you in a heartbeat: I know she would.”

“Although hypothetically true, I believe the surest and safest course of action would be to remain engaged with my present contract to Vigil’s Keep.” He said, and then the fortress bell began to toll. It was a soft, echoing sound from this low quarter of the keep but still distinct over their voices. The work day was officially over. “That is the bell, _Hah’ren_ , I am now free to take your suggestion and collect my evening meal.”

“That’s a crap subject change, Jylan.” He did not give an answer to this statement. His poor conversational skills were well established. He was prepared for how she took her leave. He was prepared for the touch on the back of his hood that inclined his head, and the sensitive pain when she touched her forehead against the brand on his own.

“ _Dareth shiral_ , _dah’len_. Go and eat.”

She left and he followed, calling Dirthamen out from under the table where the hound had fallen asleep. He locked the workshop door and took the hound to the kennels where one of the master’s assistants was ready to take Dirth away with a sleepy yawn for exercise and dinner. Then he returned to the kitchens.

Vegetable soup with many chunks of carrot and onion and potatoes and lamb fat collected and cast off from the Grey Wardens’ meals upstairs. Hot fresh bread with a scoop of butter. Half a pint of ale topped off with water to avoid intoxication. It was not yet his day to bathe, therefore he went from dinner to his chamber and lit the brazier. He hung up the blue and white robes, returned the keys to their box, removed his quartz guild ring, and placed the wooden amulet back into its place between the other two items. He washed his face and arms, and then took the bowl and pitcher to change the water for tomorrow morning. His room was warm when he returned and he unbraided his hair, combed it out, and read a few pages of the book lent to him by Lady Rowan, Connor’s sister and Commander Surana’s apprentice. It was an apprentice’s book of magical theory, and she had requested that he help her understand the concepts despite the Archmage’s daily attention to her education.

He slept. He awoke. He did it all again.

Once he and Dirthame returned from making his deliveries to the Vigil, he turned the apothecary ledger around on the table and found the line marked by Commander Surana’s hand last night. The Commander had very neat, controlled script, and he had clearly inked yesterday’s date, his name, and when he expected the order to be fulfilled.

It was a request for a sleeping draught.

Surana wanted embrium.

* * *

 

“I do not understand.” This was unbelievable. Of all the people Soren expected would come to him with a challenge against his orders or his intentions in a day, the _last_ person who should have appeared before him was a Tranquil. Yet here he was. “Your grace has intimate knowledge and experience of embrium and its effects on the body. I do not understand your purpose in requesting that reagent specifically.”

“Because it _works_ , Ansera.” They were on the bottom floor of the Vigil’s library. It was not an expansive or terribly impressive collection, but it was more comfortable for the study of magic than Soren’s own apartments higher up in the Keep. Rowan, his young apprentice, preferred it to the salon up in his chambers. The minor change of scene did not bother him and the girl was gone now, dismissed from his presence to have the rest of the afternoon for her own leisure.

What did bother him was the Tranquil. His temper was not to be taunted like this, over something so simple, and Soren was holding on to it tightly to keep it from catching into an open flame of anger. He would manage this; he would not be brought down by one nosy Tranquil that had no business questioning him.

“There are alternative recipes.” Stubborn, irritating thing.

“Then prepare any of them,” he told the failed mage in the shortest tone he could muster. “But I’m warning you, Compounder: if I wake up at any point between taking the draught and the predawn hour, it will be a grave mark against the reputation responsible for keeping you employed here.” The Tranquil was quiet for a moment.

“I understand, your grace.” Flat tone, no feeling, no _life_. Just his dead green eyes half-lidded under the crinkled red skin scarred by the brand that had taken his soul away.

“I will not tolerate being poisoned by mistake either,” Soren warned him again. “Embrium is the safest and most effective option, and that’s what I expect.” Deathroot had a hideous aftertaste to it and snowdrops were too rare and costly to go wasting on simple sleeping potions. If Soren woke up with his limbs frozen from the snowdrops’ numbing properties, then he would have Ansera packed up and thrown out of the keep by his own hands once the paralysis wore off. If his insides were a knot of pain from an overdose of deathroot tomorrow morning, then the same fate would befall the Tranquil.

The only misstep of Connor’s entire career in the Grey Wardens thus far was bringing a Tranquil back to Vigil’s Keep. If Ansera poisoned him, Soren was kicking the failed mage back to Amaranthine and would expect Connor to just _deal with it_ when he returned.

“I understand, your grace. There will be no mistakes.”

“Good. Have the mixture sent to my apartments this evening: I am competent to add hot water to herbs without assistance.”

“Yes, your grace.”

The Tranquil left with no more arguments. Soren was able to get on with his day.

It was difficult when he was this tired. He was not used to having to struggle for sleep. As a mage his mind rarely found deep and dreamless rest naturally, but the simple act of falling asleep was precisely that: simple. How could students of the Circle study the Fade if they couldn’t enter it? Mages had to know how to calm their bodies and rest even when their minds would be kept active and engaged in the realm of dreams, but that was also what wards of protection and safekeeping were for. Spells that could keep his mind from slipping into the Fade at night were second-nature to him. Even the Dalish Keepers had enchanted garments for sleeping and designs inside their aravels that served the same purpose, and lyrium-woven bed-curtains were the in-style bedroom accessory in Tevinter according to Morrigan.

Soren’s problems did not linger in the Fade.

He could not sleep. He could settle and drift off for an hour or two, yes, but then something would wake him up. Soren had attempted for several nights to go without his wards in the hopes that engaging himself in the Fade would let his body just rest, but it had not helped. He would enter the Fade and find the companionship of his spirit, Duty, but then in mid-conversation he would feel himself being dragged awake. He would be back in his bed with his heart hammering and his nerves frazzled, no explanation at all for the disturbance, and then would not be able to settle back down.

It was not a magical affliction, it could not be. It was not his Calling either: he felt nothing of the taint or the darkspawn. No songs, no singing, no resonance with something far, far beneath the Vigil.

He had tried exhausting himself with magical exercises and excessive spell-casting in Morrigan’s laboratory down the hall from their bedroom. He had put himself through several days of rigorous exercise with the other Warden mages to make sure he was physically worn out enough to sleep. He had read the most boring treatises in bed trying to knock himself out. He had, in a regrettable move last night after going too late to Connor’s workshop for help, consumed a large quantity of alcohol and then had to lay in a spinning bed as it slowly transformed into a lingering hangover.

He needed to sleep. Soren absolutely had to be able to sleep. He was trying to put together the logistics behind a journey to Orzammar and an expedition into the Deep Roads on top of his usual obligations. He could not lose sleep now and even if he only got one good night’s rest from Ansera’s draught then that, to him, would be enough. Once he broke this restless cycle he would be just fine.

“You are not going into the Roads.”

Or if he broke Zevran’s incessant need to _nag at him…_

“Why? _Why?_ Why is this such an issue to you?” Soren was at his desk this time, in his apartments, surrounded by his books and his missives and his letters and his maps and his pain-in-the-ass best friend. He dropped his elbow on the stone desk and dragged his scarred fingers over his eyes, letting his face rest in his palm. “If you hate the idea so much, then don’t come.”

“Oh, I am _coming_ with you,” Zevran challenged him in a vicious tone that Soren just didn’t have the stamina to take seriously tonight. “The day you get me to stop following you into stupid places is the day the Blight finally gets to me down there.”

“Saying things like that only encourages me to leave you behind,” he drawled into his hand.

“You would not _dare_.” Zevran had been out for most of the day. Soren didn’t know where. He hadn’t asked. Soren didn’t even know where _he_ had been, he was so tired.

“True, I wouldn’t, but that doesn’t make it a bad idea.” They had not clashed again since their fight several nights ago, but they hadn’t discussed it either. Soren dearly hoped that his friend was not going to trend the discussion that way tonight. He was not obliged.

“Soren, I mean it: you are not going into the Deep Roads.” _Maker’s Mercy, Zevran…_

“And why not?”

“Because I’m not going to let you turn tail and run away!” Soren shut his eyes, tossed his pen on the desk, and used both hands to hold his face so he didn’t let his head drop flat over the letters in front of him. He didn’t want to look at Zevran, he didn’t want to look at _anyone_ , he just wanted to sleep.

“From what?” He groaned.

“From whatever this issue is you’ve got going on with the Chantry.”

“The issue is that I have not slept properly in several days, Zevran. If I have to go without sleep then it might as well be someplace where the affliction is useful.” Like the Deep Roads. No matter how many people you went with or how well-prepared you were for the expedition, it was never wise to sleep too deep or comfortably in the crumbled dwarven ways.

“Oh, and I’m sure thoughts of the Grand Cleric have had _nothing_ to do with this.”

“If you’re asking if I’ve seen her image appear in the Fade, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve yet to stay there long enough to see _anything_.” He explained this from behind his hands, and then with a deep breath made himself sit up and look down bleary-eyed at his desk. He wanted to sleep. His back hurt and his shoulders ached. He had dealt with the slow grogginess of a reduced hang-over for most of the day. Soren wanted his bed and his rest.

Zevran left the office muttering something about Soren seeing his fist in the Fade to answer the firm knock at the adjoining salon’s main door to the rest of the keep. Soren couldn’t make himself read another word of what was in front of him, he just piled the assortment of papers into two piles: _‘I don’t care’_ and _‘I care even less_ ’. He was on his feet and rubbing his own tired back with one hand when Zevran came back with a sour face and a paper pouch.

“Al _right_ ,” he said with an annoyed trill through the word, and then handed over the pouch. “Fine. I will cease to bother you on the matter of sleep. Anything that sends _you_ into the arms of a Formari chemist is actually a problem.”

“How considerate, Master Arainai.”

“Why is it so hard for you to accept that I just want you to be happy?” Soren shut his eyes and gave a heavy sigh on purpose. Stop. “You can win this fight, you can have this marriage, just _say something_.”

“How about this:” He said, too tired for anger and just wishing this topic _done_. “Morrigan is as Andrastian as I am Dalish. I can shower her in silks and jewels with or without being married to her, and she only ever brought it up to help Kieran whose standing would hardly change because Amaranthine isn’t like the other Arlings anymore. It’s been fifteen years, Zevran, we have our ways and we’re content with them.”

“You’ve never been content with anything in your entire life.” He could have at least had the decency to say it with some fire, not that sad hum that made his soft brown eyes look so sad. Zevran’s sigh was not as fatigued as Soren’s, but it was enough before he nodded to the herbs. “What did Ansera prescribe?”

Soren tugged the mouth of the pouch open with his thumb, giving the small packet a few shakes to see what was inside. Several tightly furled yellow blossoms, assorted grainy yellow bits, finely shredded green, and finally… a chalky grey powder. Embrium.

“Jasmine flowers, what could be fennel, mint, and embrium powder.”

“And _what_ powder?” Soren gave him a sharp look for that shocked tone. “I didn’t know the Vigil still _had_ that in store. Is this just because Connor is gone?”

“Hardly.” He dismissed the idea outright. “He takes that workshop very seriously, Zevran. Connor told me himself he wouldn’t handicap their work by refusing to work with such a basic reagent. He simply won’t let it grow around the keep and lets Ansera handle it on his own.” Warden Guerrin had every reason to hate and despise the herb that had nearly killed him, but he was a rational man and a good mage who had learned not to let his fears control him.

“But you’re _sure_ that this is-?”

“Zevran, it’s one night’s dose.” He _scolded_ now, stop this. “If it doesn’t work, I won’t try it again. If it does work, then I’ll only use it when I _must_.”

This did not satisfy him but frankly Soren was out of options. Water was heated and the herbs steeped and then stirred into a cup shortly before they both retired for the night, and Zevran’s unease remained as something Soren just could not convince him to let go of. Not for card games, not for talk of politics, not for anything: he would not let it go.

Embrium worked quickly, and for this reason Soren chose to take the potion with him when he retired to bed. He could undress and cast his wards as the drink cooled on Morrigan’s empty vanity near the bed. He could stretch his shoulders and back, and washed his face, arms, and neck with warm water to wind down after the day. The last thing he could think of before drinking the potion was to quietly rifle through the drawers and compartments of Morrigan’s vanity.

It held some make-up on it, yes, but admittedly not much. Most of it, the vast majority, held the jewels Soren had commented on briefly to Zevran. Ropes of emeralds that had hung from her wrists, a chain of silver knots to decorate her throat, rings of abundant colour and lustre… Hm, she did not own any pearls? He wasn’t looking for that _reason_ but the absence struck him. He would have to correct that at some point.

Ah, he found what he wanted. A small crystal bottle with a dragon’s body done in gold and wrapped around it. He didn’t know what was actually inside of it beyond what the merchant from Val Royeaux always waxed poetic about when Soren traded gold for more of it, but Morrigan delighted in it. It made _him_ think of red wine and cherries, but Maker Only Knew what it actually was. She would dab it on her wrists and throat when she was home with him in the Vigil and Soren was allowed to miss her. He was tired, disappointed, annoyed with Zevran’s pestering, and he was allowed to miss his would-have-been bride…

A drop of it on one of the pillows on the bed. If it stained the silk then no matter, he was the Arl and a pillowcase wouldn’t end him.

The jasmine and mint were good for sleep. The yellow herb he thought was fennel didn’t taste like fennel, so he just assumed it was that other peculiar flavour that fought to keep back the distinctly metallic tang of the embrium. Between the warmth of the tea and the primary ingredient, Soren felt a slow heat building in his gut before he finished pulling back the covers and sitting on his own bed. Morrigan’s silk sheets, a good amaranthine wool comforter, and a quilt from… oh, he didn’t care tonight…

His eyes would not stay open, his body felt heavy and relaxed, his mind was protected from the Fade’s distractions. He _slept…_

…until he did not.

 _‘-kill him… going to… I’m gonna kill that stupid…’_ his thoughts were not very organized, but they stopped when he recognized a difference this time.

He was warm, so warm from the bed and the hearth fire and the embrium. He was heavy from sleep but there was a different weight. It crossed his chest, his bare chest, but one of his shoulders was uncovered and there was movement beside him, a presence over him, and- _oh?_

She kissed him. He was stupid and slow and forgot how to kiss back before she did it again. Firm and slow and soft, intentions laid bare by the something that wrapped around his left hand from the heavily scarred finger where his iron ring rested. The ring’s partner was close, very close to him, not a thousand miles away in Tevinter chasing rumours and intrigues and putting down dangers. No, she was here.

She was smug and she was possessive, her eager delight to find him warm and asleep was enough to smother whatever was hiding behind those proud emotions through the ring. Morrigan kissed him, mouthed at him expectantly, because she was here. She was here with him. She was _home_.

She was draped across his right side and resting high over him, her hand stroking firm and close down his chest before she reached up and over his torso. She caressed his shoulder and down his arm as her bare chest pressed flush over him. She was home, she’d undressed while he slept, and now she was waking him up in the only way that would let Ansera keep his job in the morning.

And he couldn’t _move_.

Oh, he _tried_. His right arm flexed, his elbow forced a bend and his palm found the warm, rolling swell of her soft hip against his. His head would not rise and his lips were slow, clumsy things that let hers control him with heavy, smothering touches. He struggled to pull his hand up from her hip and cradle the small of her back, and his left was heavy and weak when he felt the tender fall of her loose hair and wanted to touch it. His eyes could _barely_ open to look at her… But her skin smelled like her skin and her mouth felt like her mouth and he wanted to just coil his arm around her, roll them over one another in bed, and welcome her home.

‘ _No-’_ Instead he felt the veil press close and no, no. Absolutely not. He would not fall asleep like _this_. Her lips released his and her face nuzzled against his, but he could still barely open his eyes, let alone keep them that way.

“Should I be insulted or concerned by your lack of enthusiasm?” Her low voice hummed against his cheek. The arm folded on his chest was what she used to brace herself, the other lost behind his shoulder with her hand seeking a place behind his head. Her lips touched the corner of his mouth, the bridge of his nose, and he was _so heavy…_

 _“…brium…”_ He slurred the breath. Her body was warm and there was a dampness across her back and hair that said she had bathed first. She’d come home and she’d bathed, and then she’d had enough time to dry her hair because-

“That is not my name,” her deep voice tucked against his jaw…

“ _Em_ -brium, Morrigan…” He tried again, with more success this time. Her face came up to look at him and if he settled for only having one eye open, he could almost see her in the flickering red firelight.

“Have you been poisoned?” She said it so flat and seriously, as if the mood of the previous moment didn’t count anymore. He tried to shake his head but all that happened was he lost sight of her again and a soft sound escaped his throat. She’d pulled down his wards, she didn’t like them, and that was the Fade calling… “ _Soren._ ”

“No…” So hard to talk when the herb was thick in his blood like this… “No poison…” He could have called the taint to help burn through the drug and wake himself up, but the will to do so escaped him. It would please both of them immensely if he could wake up and give her his full and proper attention, but getting there would be uncomfortable and required him working up enough anger to trigger the taint. Getting that angry when warm, comfortable, and partnered with his woman was a tall and aggressive order that he really, honestly, didn’t want to go through with…

“Wake up,” _No…_ “I said: how many nights have you taken this medicine of yours?”

“First night,” he drawled, fingers clumsy over her skin. “Who knows, you might just be a dream.” She pinched him, it hurt, he whined about it.

“I prefer you drunk,” she announced. “You’re practically insatiable when wine is involved.” Mm… He would have commented back but she settled over him again with her kisses. He finally found the strength to lift his arm up and thread his fingers through her loose black hair. He brushed the tresses back over her shoulder, stroked her throat and then found the back of her head to hold her close for those deep, moving kisses.

“I’m trying,”

“Try harder.” Maker, it was hard to move. She had to help him pull them over into a roll, the bed’s pillows catching her under her shoulders and the silk whispering against her skin. Morrigan was smiling when he kissed her again and there was a delighted chuckle that swept warm and easy from her throat before he tilted his head and kissed there too. Her hands crawled down his back, thighs spread and welcoming him to her and… he… just…

“I said _wake up_.”

“I’m _drugged…_ ” And her throat smelled so nice and the curve of her neck was so alluring and the weight of his body settling down on her just _felt so good…_ She was _home_ …

“Are you _cuddling_ me?”

“No.” Yes. Her hair was fanned out beneath her and the silk was softly scented with her perfume, and his eyes would not stay open, and she complained but she held him and stroked her nails through his hair… “This is sex… I know what I’m doing.”

“Usually, yes, but not tonight.” He was losing his grip again… he could feel himself _sliding…_ “I’m going to hold this against you in the morning, but sleep, my love. _Sleep._ ” He…

Thank Andraste, he _slept…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Morrigan u smooch him. After Disgrace I almost feel like embrium should come with its own trigger warning.
> 
> Did what I said and got a chapter done tonight, so I got to update too!  
> I think how it's going to work is that as I finish chapters on tumblr I'll update on AO3. I finished 10 tonight so here's part 4! Leave a comment below!


	5. Out Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This past week was too eventful for much writing. I finished my practicum, fell down with a really awful cold, and got hired full time in my field! Finally got a chapter done tonight, so before I go to bed! The update! Leave a comment below!

 

Wake up, rise. Twenty-one push-ups. Thirty sit-ups. Wash face. Comb and braid hair. Dress self.

To the workshop: light the fire, ready the cauldron. To the kitchen: bread, honey, pear. To the workshop: check the ledger, pack the basket. To the kennelmaster: retrieve hound.

It was raining in the dark pre-dawn hour. Loud, heavy, cold rain that drummed hard over rooftops and splashed through gutters into the muddy lanes of the fortress’s supply town. The seamstress threatened to have his ears pinched if the wax pellets were not the correct colour. The carpenter chirped and praised his speed at preparing the pail of resin. The draftsmen gave him an unnecessary pouch of coppers to pay for the seven bottles of ink. The Innkeeper took the soap from him without a word.

“By Andraste, boy, you’re going to catch your death in this rain!” Midwife Valora would not let him leave until he had finished a hot cup of ginger and apple tea inside her warm hutch. The roof was bent and there was a soft drip of cold water trickling down into a pot on the table, but she went about her business without paying it any mind.

There were many dozens of bundles of herbs hanging from the walls and ceiling of the one-room building she shared with her granddaughter Vessa. Beneath the herbs a great table, fireplace, and stack of dried firewood dominated much of the cluttered space. Between the retirement of the fortress’ previous apothecary, Master Ridrick, and Warden Guerrin’s efforts to reopen the workshop Jylan was now employed in, the Vigil had come to rely overmuch on the skills of its midwife. Her thoughts and feelings on this matter were clear to both Warden Guerrin and himself.

 “I am fed by the keep’s kitchens,” he protested when she rolled a small pie of cheese and onions in a scrap of linen cloth, and paired it with a flask of brandy for the cold weather. There was no soup bone today for the hound, but Dirthamen had not finished chewing through the last one yet. “It is unnecessary for you to-”

“Hush, boy,” she scolded him again, placing the items into his nearly empty basket. “People like us have to stick together, and seeing you walk about in this foul weather without the proper clothing is a travesty.”

“It did not occur to me to check the weather beyond the keep before departing for this morning’s deliveries.” He made the admission to ease her anxiety over his well-being. “And I concede that it was unwise to proceed without returning for an appropriate cloak, as I do own one. It is more important that the morning deliveries be completed on time: before the morning bell.”

“A piss on that bell. If you show up on my doorstep one more time without your cloak between now and next spring, I-” The wizen old elf curled her thin lips together tightly, looking him over in a severe manner. “Well I’ll think of _something_ worth doing. I’d insist on you going back for your cloak _now_ but that basket of yours is too light for many more stops. Where else are you off to?”

“I have an order of polish for the chantry’s fixtures, as well as this week’s delivery of candlewax.” A hard yellow block of it that he had cut into sections after it had finished curing. The sisters would mould the candles themselves using special wicks and the incense he had delivered earlier in the week.

“Come back this way when you’re done,” she told him. “Vessa should be back from her foraging this morning and if she comes by early enough I want you to take a few eggs to have on hand and boil up for yourself in that workshop.” He tried to- “You’re no Warden! Whatever they offer you from the kitchens is hardly the hottest or the freshest to be had. Off you get! Quit dripping water on my rushes, boy, and wear your cloak next time!”

She chased him and the hound from her home back out into the rain. The cold gave him pause, the rain soaking cold and fast through his sodden garments, beginning at his shoulders and reaching down through his sleeves. It was uncomfortable. His proximity to the midwife’s fire had warmed the water already trapped in his clothes, causing a lapse in his awareness. He was very wet. The wind was very cold. The dawn sky remained dark for the storm clouds. The hound expressed anxiety over the situation by whining to him and nudging him with its square snout.

They proceeded to the chantry. The sanctuary was just off the Vigil’s Market and up a steep, winding path to the top of a modest hill formed by the foundations of the fortress’s high outer wall. The path was running with water and soaked his shoes and socks completely, leading to a numbing sensation across his toes when the persistent water became too much for his feet to keep warm against. Water had begun to trickle down his back from his wet shoulders, and he was aware of the water soaking into his hair from his dripping hood.

The chantry grounds were marked by a low stone wall with a wooden gate, and next to the gate was the chanters’ board where tasks and requests from denizens of the Vigil were posted. Jylan made use of this board rather frequently to keep the workshop supplied with basic materials at a reduced cost compared to ordering supplies from Amaranthine or taxing himself with the additional duties. He paid for the requisitions via a modest float supplied by the Seneschal, and the money itself was kept locked up in a drawer only he and Warden Guerrin had access to.

After the warning he had received earlier in the week for trespassing across chantry grounds, Jylan placed himself by the chanter’s board as he had been instructed. This was not an ideal situation: it was very dark, and very early, and he was standing in very poor weather. He would not be easily seen or noticed under these circumstances and now that he was not physically active in the rain, he was becoming increasingly cold.

His hair was very wet and his back was cold. He could not feel his fingertips and his hands ached when moved. Despite the two layers of his robes and then his trousers, the water had soaked down over his thighs and they were beginning to sting from the cold. If this continued, he would be unable to return to the workshop before first bell, the time at which he was expected to have himself in order and work through until the afternoon. It was reasonable to assume that at least one person would complain to the Seneschal if they approached the workshop at the appropriate time and he was not present.

His shoulders were very cold, and the wind persistently dragged itself around and cut into the shadow of his hood to chill his throat. It occurred to him that there was a possibility he may fall ill if his condition was allowed to worsen. At this point, even his immediate return to the keep would not guarantee his continued good health: he was very wet, and despite the relative warmth of the workshop he would have to work in wet clothing. The water dripping from his hems and hands would also pose a risk to his safety should he slip in wet shoes across the stone floor.

This was a very poor situation. If he took the additional time to bathe and change his clothes he would be at least an hour late in opening the workshop, and would thus be in violation of his contract to the Vigil. Alternatively, if he worked in wet clothes he would pose a danger to anyone entering the workshop who could slip in the water, such as Warden An’eth or _Hah’ren_ Velana. From yet another perspective: if he fell ill then he would be unable to work at all.

He decided that the third alternative was the least tolerable. He resolved not to become ill, and the first step in ensuring he maintained his health was to remove himself from the rain. In order to accomplish this task, he looked to the hound.

“Dirthamen,” he called on the animal, a well-intended but poorly executed gift from Rowan Guerrin, Connor’s sister. The grey hound immediately looked up in response to its name, its ears and jowls dripping from the downpour. “Go and alert the chantry sisters to my presence.”

The dog did nothing. It whined at him and looked down the path away from the chantry. Leaving without making the delivery was an option that would only garner further scorn from the chantry sisters and Revered Mother Iris. Given his past experiences with the chantry in general, Jylan deemed this outcome even less pleasant than the notion of his falling ill. As he was beginning to shiver and the cold had crept diligently down his chest, he resolved to find a solution to his situation.

He considered his phrasing of the command and altered it. He brought to mind the manner in which many people who did not understand his circumstances as a Tranquil spoke to him, and adopted a similar tone.

“Dog: go bark at the door.” The mabari stood with sudden excitement, dashed around in a tight circle, and then leapt over the fence and charged towards the chantry doors. Dirthamen reached the covered stone steps and stopped at the doors where he began barking in earnest, yapping and scraping, even rising on his back legs and slamming his paws against the doors. Even in the rain, Jylan could hear the ruckus clearly.

His ears, like the rest of him, were soaking wet and freezing cold. There was an uncomfortable chill grabbing around his arms and making his shivers more pronounced.

The chantry doors opened. This was good.

The voices were muddled by the rain and wind, but Dirthamen was brought into the chantry and then the doors slammed shut behind the dog. This was not good.

The chantry erupted with the howls and shrill snaps of an angry mabari. This was far worse than them merely becoming separated: the mabari had been commanded to bark with the possible understanding that his noise would bring the chantry sisters out to accept their delivery. Being taken away and barred from returning to Jylan’s side sparked a reaction that was not surprising or unheard of, but was still unintended and no doubt inflammatory. This was not good.

The doors burst open again and Dirthamen threw himself out into the rain, bounding towards the fence and clearing the gate in another clean leap. The hound stopped, turned to face the chantry again and put his ears back, teeth showing, and growled across the yard.

Jylan looked the same way, expecting to see a sister or the Revered Mother coming to demand a reason for the mabari’s behaviour. He would face a reprimand for the animal but would complete his delivery and be able to return to Mistress Valora and then into the keep to bathe and change his clothes. He was cold. His shivers were interfering with his ability to breathe. The candlewax was heavy and holding the basket with both hands was proving difficult.

The chantry door remained ajar for several seconds. He saw the edges of the sister’s white and red robes and understood that if he could see her in a dark doorway then she could see him in his blue hood and white sleeves by the chanter’s board, where he had been instructed to wait. A Tranquil and a mabari together at this hour of morning would only mean one thing: a delivery.

The chantry door swung shut. He did not understand why.

The morning bell began to toll from the Vigil’s high tower. He was late. He had not completed the delivery. He could not cross the yard. He did not know what else to do.

He waited.

* * *

 

The weather over the Vigil was miserable today. The air was nothing but sheets of cold rain slapping the buildings and bubbling over the ground, cascading through the lanes both cobbled and soft to create a mess of the settlement. It was not good weather for walking, or visiting, or errand running. The wind was very cold even as the morning picked up and put many people in a foul mood. Children were shut up indoors, tradesmen were left to grumble in their workshops, and for Delilah the rain was just not what she’d wanted today.

Delilah had to remind herself of what her mother would say to hear her grown and married daughter drag her feet and whine all the way through the mess of a storm. A noblewoman did not groan. She did not bitch and complain about a bit of rain: she took her sword and her horse and she did her duty like Andraste had hers. Today, Delilah’s horse was a box of fresh bread and cakes, and her duty was to deliver them to Sister Clarice at the fortress’ chantry: a token of thanks and appreciation for the Sisters’ forgiveness towards young Natalie this week.

Honestly, the girl was the spiritual twin of her namesake. Delilah would not let Nathaniel live down the moment when his niece had snuck into the chantry through _‘that bad window in the back’_ and wound up on the beams holding up the building’s roof. Grey Warden or no and brother or not, if her girl had fallen from that height Delilah would have smoked Nathaniel Howe from the keep for putting the idea of touching Andraste’s forehead into Natalie’s eleven-year-old mind. The girl was at home carding an abysmal quantity of wool for spinning, and the mother was nearly atop the chantry hill in the downpour.

She would be glad to have this errand over with so she could return home to a warm fire, some hot tea, and… Maker, what was he doing here?

“Master Ansera?” In that blue and white robe it could not be anyone else. His faithful hound was nowhere to be seen and he wasn’t doing much of anything: standing there in the rain with both hands holding the basket she’d given him for his deliveries around the settlement. He wasn’t posting anything to the chanter’s board and would have been mad for trying it in this weather anyways. Delilah hurried to him when he did not acknowledge her, perhaps the rain was simply too loud?

“Compounder?” She tried again and he did not move. He was standing by the board with his head down, water running thick through his clothes and drizzling off of him like a statue. Hefting her box under one arm, she reached for his shoulder and felt the water soak her glove with the touch. She shook him. “Jylan!”

Delilah had never seen him startle before, but the fast breath and the shake that wracked him: she startled him. Something was wrong with his eyes when he looked at her because they wavered and moved over her like he was reading blurred lines on a page. His face was very pale and his lips were bloodless, water skating down his nose and the rain wetting his cheeks. He didn’t greet her.

“I am- cold.” She nearly dropped her goods.

“Maker’s Divine Mercy, Jylan, I should think so!” Why was he out here? Why was he doing this to himself? “It’s mid-morning, you shouldn’t be here! Quickly now, out of this rain!” To the chantry, it was right there and he- and he resisted when she pulled him to the gate.

“I am not permitted to enter the chantry.” He-

“What!?” She was _scandalized!_ “Jylan, at once! Tell me why you are out here.”

“I am to deliver an order of wax- an order of candlewax.” She had never heard him stumble with his words before. He was toneless, but short of breath. “Candlewax, and there is also- and I am late.”

“And how were you going to deliver anything to the chantry without actually going inside?” And why wouldn’t he be allowed inside? That was madness! She pulled him again and this time-

He stumbled and dropped his basket, spilling his sodden parcels which he then tried to retrieve despite her protests.

“Leave it and come inside,” she told him, but he would not listen. He insisted on picking all of it up even when his numb fingers could not hold the wrapped bundles of wax properly. Food and a flask had fallen from the basket as well and Delilah had to just kneel and help him rather than watch him suffer in the mud and rain. “Jylan, quickly please. You must come inside.”

“I am not permitted to enter the-”

“That is outlandish, _come_.”

“No.”

“Compounder Ansera this is not a joke!”

“I will not disobey the Revered Mother. I will not risk… I…” Risk? He was on one knee and did not rise. He looked down at the muddy ground for a heavy beat in the rain. Delilah saw him waver and then place one hand on the ground, his fingers quickly overwhelmed with grime and water. He couldn’t stand? _He couldn’t stand_.

“Jylan-” Delilah crouched and quickly hooked her arm under one of his, braced their shoulders together and tried to _lift_ him. He was elven, but not a trifling weight. He stumbled hard and she could not bring him to his feet: he staggered and hit the ground with both hands and knees this time. “Jylan!” He made one more attempt to rise and then pitched forward in a heap.

 _“_ Help! _Help!”_ She dropped her goods and scrambled for him, heart in her throat. She dragged his shoulders and head up before he could drown in the spilling water. “ _Sisters! Wardens! Anyone, help! Someone **please!** ”_

She heard the violent racket of a mabari howling and snarling from all the way across the chantry yard. The doors flew open and out dashed Compounder Ansera’s hound- but why was the loyal animal inside and not with him? Had- had the fool elf sent it in out of the rain? Why couldn’t he have had the same care for himself first!

“Jylan wake up-” She kept her arm under his shoulder and holding him up, pulling back his hood because he was soaked through regardless and she couldn’t see his face. He was dead weight in her arms. “ _Help!_ Maker’s Mercy, _help him!_ ”

The sisters were coming, hurrying after the hound as it leaped the fence and growled at her before realizing she was no _threat_. It dropped its lips and let out a sharp whine, quickly coming forward and fussing at the side of its fallen master. Delilah looked up again when she heard the gate open and almost cried from relief as Sister Clarice and one of the Lay Sisters came to her aid. Ansera was going to be okay.

“Help him- please, help me take him inside,” she pleaded. Delilah was just making noise now because Sister Clarice was already kneeling to help lift him of course.

“The strange fool has been standing here in the rain for hours.” She felt the cold rain cut through her cloak and shawl.

“He said he had a delivery for you-” Delilah strung words together into a thought but it was an eerie thing to say. “He told me he couldn’t enter the chantry for some reason- that the Revered Mother…”

“Then you think he would have come back in better weather! Marin, take his other arm from Mistress Stockard.” It shocked her. Shook her deeply.

“You knew he was out here?” Abruptly the rain did not feel as cold to her. The wind was warm. The rain was hot. “You knew? And you left him?”

“Not _now_ , Mistress.” Sister Clarice scolded her as if she were a bothersome child.

Delilah bit her tongue. She gathered the Compounder’s basket and her own box of baked goods, now mud-splattered on the outside and perhaps a bit damp on the inside. She followed the two women as they dragged the elf between them, his hound alert and fidgeting aggressively.

Inside the chantry it was warm without being cozy and smelled of familiar incense and smoke. Andraste’s stone effigy towered at the back of the chapel with her eternal flame wafting gently from her offered crucible. It was a modest building with barely enough space for the regular congregation, rows of hard wooden pews set up with four small alcoves built into the sides of the sanctuary. It was on to one of those pews that compounder Ansera was made to sit on.

Sit. In his condition. Water trickling from every part of him. They made him _sit_.

The mabari came quickly to his aid and spared Delilah an indignant scene. Jylan was bent over his own knees, elbows the only thing keeping him from simply dropping to the floor. The hound set its paws on his lap and placed its large head on his shoulder. If it had stood up completely the animal would have easily been taller than his hunched form, but it sought to give comfort and was rewarded when its master reached out enough to set his hands and forearms around the mabari. In his half-frozen state it was doubtless all he could muster. At a loss, Delilah took a seat next to him and placed a hand on his dripping shoulder to offer comfort while a proper bed was prepared for him.

Apparently they were to wait a while for _that_ courtesy as well.

“The wax should still be good.” The two women fell upon the basket and unwrapped the long rectangular parcels of wax, clearly unimpressed with the soaked nature of the goods. They took a wooden jar as well, and then a linen square was scoffed at and tossed aside for containing a partially melted pie of pastry and cheese. Lay Sister Marin pried the cork from a small green flask and announced that it held cheap brandy.

Delilah saw red.

“That is his.” She stated sharp and short. “Where is he to rest?”

“Right there,” Lay Sister Marin answered, framed by Andraste’s warm firelight and Delilah just wanted to slap her. “When he is warm enough and able to stand, he’ll go back to-” _Warm enough_ in this stone room on a wooden bench in sopping wet clothes? They would kill him!

Delilah stood up, indignant, outraged, _hurt_. Marin was nothing but a Lay Sister but Clarice was quiet and offered absolutely no criticism of the other woman’s disgusting comment. That she stood was enough to quiet the Lay Sister and focus Sister Clarice’s attention back on her.

She had been born a Lady of House Howe. A Fereldan noblewoman did not scream and shriek and tantrum like a brat when things did not go her way and a Howe did not tip her hand too soon. She said nothing of the indignity of their behaviour: that they had known one of the Vigil’s craftsmen was waiting for their attention but they had outright ignored him. That they had no intention of caring for him as was their due diligence as members of Andraste’s holy order. That they did not dispute the suggestion that Compounder Ansera had been _barred_ from the chantry.

There was much room for Delilah to be wrong and to be mistaken, but there was more harm in saying too much too soon than in saying nothing at all, which was what she did presently.

“I will return shortly,” her voice was not genuinely pleasant but there was an attempt made towards sounding polite. “Thank you, Sisters, for your patience.”

Delilah left the chantry _with_ her bread box.

She went to smoke out her brother, stuff him in his armour, and set this shameful day _right_.

 

 

 


	6. The Commander's Nerves

For multiple reasons, Soren was slow to get out of bed that morning. Typically he was awake and about his business before dawn, but today he woke up with the frigid, adverse effects of the previous night’s embrium. He was cold and he ached, shivering in cycles for the better part of an hour until the misery passed and he finally got to enjoy two things: his deep night’s sleep, and his returned lover.

True to her words, Morrigan did not let him pretend that last night’s incident, or lack thereof, had not happened. She teased and mocked him, slurred her words to mimic what he must have sounded like, let herself pretend to fall asleep in his arms, and similarly became an annoyance until he made her stop. He very diligently and dutifully made her _stop_. Grey Warden ‘ _vitality_ ’ had nothing to do with it, Soren was just very stubborn about correcting his own mistakes.

“If you had only returned a few hours earlier, then we could have tried _this_ method before I resorted to the embrium.” Because honestly, with the rain tapping on the windows and the sun too tired to try breaking through the storm and herald the day, it was very tempting to just stay in bed with her. To run his hand down along her hair, to feel the warm and satisfied weight of her body tangled with his, to assure himself that she was present and well.

He did have to get up however. Morrigan was free to complain and roll into his spot in the bed when he left it, but Soren needed to be off. Shirt and trousers and boots and a warm robe of thick black fur and a red velvet shell, belted over with black silks and iron links.

“You are wearing that one today?” She sighed from the bed.

“Yes?” He paused, “Is there a problem with it?”

“I had hoped to wear my emeralds again. They do not compliment the black of that robe.”

“Flattered though I am, Morrigan, hearing you try to coordinate our outfits would horrify your younger self. What was it you told me? You would bake the bread while I painted the fence?” The problem was that he _was_ flattered, but not to the point of changing his outfit. What Soren did do was open one of the drawers in his own armoir and find the case he wanted. He pulled out a short metal wrist-guard of polished steel. It was set with emerald shards and functioned only as a ceremonial piece: a gift from someone important at some point. He closed it tight around his wrist and shook his sleeve out, holding his hand up with a look over his shoulder. Good enough?

Morrigan, on her stomach and chin resting on her woven fingers, was kicking her bare feet and smiling at him in a smug, conceited way. She was slow and lazy about sitting up while he finished getting ready. When he passed the bed again he did oblige her with a pause to lean down and kiss her forehead again, stroking his thumb across her cheek.

“We have matters to discuss today.” She sighed the words like a burden and Soren tugged the quilt back up around her bare shoulders to keep her warm. Morrigan’s eyes remained closed, her hair swept around over one shoulder and tangled across her modest chest. “Sadly, I did not return to the Vigil last night solely to enjoy your company and to criticize your wardrobe.”

“It would do my pride no favours to think you came all the way from Tevinter just to share my bed, Morrigan.”

“Tis not sharing when all involved is clearly mine.” He tilted her chin up and let his lips settle full across hers, enjoying the smile that spread across her mouth before he pulled away. The smile did not last however, and she called to him again before he could leave. “It is important, Soren. Do not neglect this.”

“Shall we discuss it now?” She scoffed at him and lifted her arms a little, looking down at herself where she was sitting on the bed. Sex-tousled and sleepy, her voice was husky and felt like a silk scarf brushing around the back of his neck. Don’t do that.

“I am hardly fit to be seen.” He did not kiss her again; he was not going to fall into that trap for the hundredth time and lose an entire day in her arms. Tomorrow was the day of rest, no one would miss him tomorrow. Except that tomorrow was not _today_ and she was sitting there with her hand stroking up her own bare thigh, head tilted and her golden eyes giving slow, half-lidded looks in his direction. _Stop that._

“Tend to yourself first then. Shall we have lunch together?” He offered, “How private is the matter?”

“Best kept from servants and fools, no doubt.” She gave him a reproachful look for remaining so far away from the bed, and just like that her bedroom eyes and sleepiness vanished. She sat there alert on the bed, legs completely covered, and Soren knew he’d won but it felt more like a petty loss. “Zevran should obviously attend as it would not do to have it all explained repeatedly for him. Any of your capable Wardens would perhaps benefit as well.” That was quiet the growing list. So no, in that case Morrigan was _not_ presently fit to discuss whatever it was openly.

“This afternoon, after I send Rowan away?”

“As you like, but make certain it is today.” Very well.

“Until then,” he nodded.

“Wait- no goodbye kiss?” She called after him like it was a scandal. Soren paused with a hand on the doorknob and gave her an open, innocent look.

“Of course no goodbyes, you live here.” And he left with her laughter following him.

“-and if that doesn’t work, you just set _everything_ on fire.” Soren walked into the salon and found the hearthfire burning brightly. Zevran was sitting at the dining table across from a shy young girl whose dark brown hair was woven into a thick braid down her back. There was very poor magical tutelage in progress.

“Master Arainai,” Soren clicked his tongue. Zevran’s sunny grin was false and yet remained endearing. Damn him. “What are you teaching my apprentice?”

“Combat tactics,” he chirped, and then looked back at the uncomfortable child, fingers numbering off points. “First, you set the enemy on fire. Then you set your allies on fire. And after _that_ you set the building-”

“That never happened,” Soren cut him off with a huff. Zevran whirled in his seat and pointed at him directly.

“The Denerim dockyards you lying liar who tells lies.”

“That was not my fault and you _know-_ ”

“-that it was you who shouted ‘ _Shit, oil!_ ’ before half the room exploded and I felt Andraste’s holy gaze rest upon me.” Melodramatic _ass_.

Soren stood there and he was quiet and he resolved not to say another word on this topic. Not in front of the girl.

Rowan Guerrin was the second child of Isolde and Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe. Her father had been killed by Soren’s magic at the Battle of Redcliffe last winter, her mother had been punished and exiled by King Alistair for crimes against Amaranthine and the Grey Wardens. Rowan, due to her brother’s sense of compassion and obligation, had been brought to Vigil’s Keep to study magic with Soren rather than send her all the way to Cumberland to join the College of Enchanters’ there. Soren had been in contact _with_ the College regarding her, but she lived in Amaranthine now.

She was not what he would have called a happy child, not that she had much reason to be. Her magic had signalled the end of her family’s fortunes and prominence, and the actions of her parents had destroyed not just their own lives, but reduced Rowan’s childhood home to rubble. She had been a bright and precocious child when Soren had known here only as the young daughter of an Arl he rather disliked, but even he could see the changes in her over the last year.

She was withdrawn, especially around him. She kept her grey eyes downcast for most of their hours together, and the great trepidation she expressed regarding her magic was a hindrance to her practice and learning. She had dimmed considerably since her brother Connor had left Vigil’s Keep for Weisshaupt Fortress in the Anderfels, but they had tried to prepare her for that certainty before his departure.

“In front of the girl, Zevran?” Soren finally asked, and his friend gave the widest, brightest, most frustrating and insincere grin. If Rowan had been charmed or even just entertained by his _tactics_ , then Soren couldn’t tell from his place in the doorway.

“ _Yes_.” Asshole. “But I see you are finally awake and ready for your day. How does Morrigan fare?” Of course he would know she was home, he’d be a poor self-professed body guard if she took him by surprise like that.

“You have an ally in your campaign against my good rest,” Soren allowed himself to say. “She was not impressed with the draught.”

“I shouldn’t think so. What about the matter of our beloved Cleric?”

“Do keep your mouth shut about that, will you?” Soren didn’t know why he bothered with this topic anymore.

“Absolutely not!” Zevran chirped at him. “I will see you married if it is the last thing these old bones do.”

“Are you my friend or my pestering mother?”

“Both. Certainly both.” _Enough_.

Soren was permitted to eat breakfast at his own table, but when he rose to take Rowan with him to the library for a proper lesson the girl was unusually hesitant to leave. Her mabari, Laklah, was a heavy black hound that followed on the girl’s heels to most places, and gave a disruptive bark to get his attention when Soren made to leave the apartments. He looked first to the dog, then to the young mage, and expected a reason.

She dropped her eyes and her voice barely fluttered above a whisper. The girl did not like him at all.

“Is… Is Lady Morrigan returned to Vigil’s Keep, your grace?”

“Yes, Rowan, she has.” But he answered this question the way he would have any other. “I’m not certain for how long, but at least for today and perhaps tomorrow as well. She has important matters to discuss with Master Arainai and myself.”

“Oh, sounds _thrilling!_ ” Zevran spoke up from his place by the fire where he had set himself up to read for the morning. Soren gave him a harsh look and received a rude hand-gesture for his trouble.

“Do you desire to visit with her while she is home?” Soren asked the girl, because he was no fool and remembered well the days shortly after the Battle of Redcliffe where Morrigan had whisked the child off for quiet conversations without him. Rowan kept her eyes down but nodded, murmuring a soft _‘Yes, m’lord’_. Very well, he would see if Morrigan felt like humouring the girl.

Somehow, the topic put a funny thought in his head.

“Since your brother’s departure, where have you been spending most of your time in the afternoons?” Doubtless she went and found the other children who ran about the Vigil: Nathaniel’s niece Natalie, Oghren’s daughter Sorran, and so on. There were plenty of children to be found both within the castle and the lower settlement.

“Sometimes with Master Ansera in the late afternoon, your grace, before he ends his day.” Oh. Well that would have to stop at some point soon then. It would not be good for her to spend so much time around a Tranquil: failed mages were a poor influence on apprentices.

He had tact enough not to say as much to her right _now_ , but as he led Rowan away to the library he was certainly thinking about it. When Connor returned he could monitor his sister around the Tranquil, that was fine, but encouraging her fear of magic by showing her the fate once suffered by mages unable to master and control their magic would not help her in the long-term.

The place where they held their lessons together was an alcove of the Vigil’s Library. As the historical seat of the Arling, the Vigil’s Library was… honestly quite bare, holding little more than shelves and shelves of records and histories. Soren’s immediate predecessor had kept a private library of questionable and frankly offensive tastes, and when Nathaniel had finished going through his father’s library for the one or two tomes he actually wanted to keep, Soren had abandoned the rest. Some had gone to the chantry, others to the city for redistribution, and a few of the most foul had been outright burned.

Velanna’s main duties when not acting as a Grey Warden were for the care of the library. She had cleaned it, reorganized the shelves, and with the space she’d opened up had been hard at work bringing in books actually worth reading. Works of poetry and playwrights, ballads, books of music, tomes of handicraft and lore, and so on. There were even books on the _practice_ of reading, to make the library itself more accessible. Soren was actually given reason to wonder if he should not have given her the library years ago, before her desertion. Would it have made a difference?

Best not to dwell on things like that.

The alcove for Rowan had a slate board resting atop a low shelf of books on magic. Most of them were basic theory and explanation: what was the veil? The Fade? What was a demon? How did the primal magics actually work? What was the roll of willpower and the mechanics of casting? Diagrams of anatomy and the charts of stars in the sky. Apprentice workbooks from Cumberland also took up space on the shelf. It was a great deal to go through and Rowan had many years of study ahead of her.

Like her brother, Rowan was intelligent and had a good memory. What she lacked was the discipline to study, but Soren had taught his son to read and write and was no stranger to fidgeting and spacey expressions. If Kieran had memorized the foundations of geometry, then Rowan would learn to remember and to draw the cardinal values.

“Your grace!” His fingertips were dusted with chalk and Rowan’s face was tense with concentration when the voice interrupted them. The girl’s spell collapsed completely, and she gave a frustrated cry and threw her quill down the table with a huff. Soren would have scolded her for it, but- “Your _grace!_ ” He was distracted.

“Seneschal, this is most unlike you.” Soren hoped the reproach was clear in his voice as Seneschal Garevel, the man who did much of the day to day care to keep Vigil’s Keep functioning so smoothly, blustered into the middle of their lesson. Garevel’s blond and tightly curled hair was speckled with water from the storm outside, but he wasn’t wearing a cloak and the rest of him save his boots seemed dry.

What was most important was how the tall former-Captain of defense was clearly incensed about something. His fair complexion was blushing harshly from anger, his straight and pointed nose kept shaking while his green eyes quivered with a rage that surprised Soren. He was trying to calm himself to the point of being presentable, but was doing a poor job of it.

“ _Do_ forgive me for interrupting Lady Rowan’s lesson, your grace, but this matter _cannot_ wait another moment. I am beside myself and must speak with you. Privately. If possible. _Now._ ”

Garevel was a man who possessed nerves of steel when holding a sword and shield, but suffered from a considerably weaker constitution when armed only with a ledger and pen. That said, he knew his place. He knew his duties, and he fulfilled his obligations decisively and effectively regardless of what was being asked of him. The very few times over the years that Garevel had ever come to Soren kicking up a wild fuss about something had been moments when he’d had every right to barge in and make demands of his time as Arl of Amaranthine. Seeing him like this, Soren was obliged to listen.

Soren looked to his apprentice, who was watching the exchange very closely. Her mabari had picked its black head up off the floor where it had curled up under the table its mistress was sitting at. With a nod, he gestured for Rowan to leave.

“To your chores then, and after lunch the day is yours.” He dismissed her and Rowan was quick to shut her book, cap her ink, and escape the library. As soon as her footsteps had scurried off through the bare stone library, Soren’s seneschal was already speaking.

“Your grace, I am as pious a man as they come,” Garevel chose a strange opener and Soren resolved to just hear him out. “But you must lend me your support to hold Revered Mother Iris to task.”

A hot flash passed through his body and Soren knew he let Garevel see his shock.

“I- _what?_ ” He didn’t intend to stammer and it was wrong of him. Garevel threw himself into an angry, affronted explanation.

“Compounder Ansera, as the entire fortress is aware, is the only person within Vigil’s Keep qualified to operate the Apothecary in Warden Guerrin’s extended absence. He is elven, he is of course tranquil, but above all else Master Ansera is under _my_ stewardship as Seneschal of Vigil’s Keep- I will not allow the Chantry to abuse one of my staff be it a result of personal distaste or sheer disrespect!” Soren pulled a handkerchief from his robe’s pocket to remove the chalk from his fingertips before he stained himself, gesturing for calm.

“Start at the beginning, Lawrence.” What had the Tranquil gotten himself into _now?_

“It is a _list_ , your grace.” The Seneschal came very close to directing his anger at the wrong person but reigned it in by laying one hand out and numbering off his points with the other. “I have been informed this morning that Compounder Ansera is forbidden from crossing onto the Chantry grounds- a _preposterous_ notion as he is a craftsman of the Vigil and a former ward of the Circle of Magi! He is wrongly barred and yet still expected to fulfill requisitions from the Revered Mother and to deliver them- to deliver to a place he is not permitted to go! Whilst standing in the rain this morning for Andraste Only Knows how long, Mother Iris’ Sisters observed him but refused to meet him at the gate or to dismiss him! Your grace, it was _you_ who explained to me a year ago that all instructions for Ansera must proceed in a logical fashion because he takes them most literally.”

“So he got stuck outside is what you’re telling me.” Soren could see that happening quite easily. It was unfortunate, but not surprising. “I trust he’s alright for a bit of rain, Seneschal.”

“He is certainly not, your grace.” Oh? Then that meant Soren was obligated to listen a little longer. “He collapsed from the cold and if not for Mistress Stockard’s intervention would likely have remained that way until afternoon prayer. They did not forget him: the Sisters stated to Mistress Stockard that they saw him and refused to meet him due to the rain- though they have already changed their story for the Revered Mother! It is shameful behaviour, your grace!”

But entirely expected. Soren held the words in, kept his silence because to speak at present would not be a good idea. He understood that Garevel expected him to be surprised by what he was hearing, but Soren wasn’t. The Tranquil had been left out in the rain because the Sisters had not wanted to meet him in the storm. Had it been a sunny day outside they might still have done the same thing. The fault was not with the Sisters for being lazy but with the Tranquil for not having the capacity to decide for himself to abandon the errand for his own health. That they would lie about it to the Revered Mother was unfortunate but again- what did Garevel expect?

“Where is Compounder Ansera at present?” He asked to avoid the question working itself up the Seneschal’s throat. Soren was not surprised and did not want to be asked why. “You’ve mentioned Warden Howe’s sister twice.”

“She originally had him moved into the Chantry to escape the rain, but claims the sisters refused to care for him there.” Again, Soren was not surprised to hear that. They had probably just given him a place to sit and recoup before sending him on his way. “She brought Captain and Sergeant Howe from the Vigil to the Chantry to claim him along with Warden Athras. It was Captain Howe who alerted me to the matter and I’ve only just returned from the Chantry to find you.”

“Then I trust that you have handled the matter. It seems important to you.” Deflect. Deflect. Don’t make this about him _at all_.

“Pardon my tone, your grace but _of course it’s important to me!_ ” Garevel came _very_ close to not being pardoned at all for his volume, but Soren held off from commenting on it. He let his thin lips and firm expression do the talking for him, but Garevel was too far gone in his own little world. “I will _not_ have my staff disrespected or put in harms way! I was prepared to hold Ansera to task for the complaints filtering in to me all morning over his workshop being closed and the Compounder himself nowhere to be found- as if he has anything else to do with his time except work! But this is intolerable, your grace. Pardon me again, Commander, but I am not running a Circle or a cloister: I am running a fortress, and that fortress needs it chemist as certainly as it needs its horsemaster or its blacksmith. If he should die from his illness then what will I tell his Guildmaster? No! If a bit of rain is too high a price for the Revered Mother to pay for her requisitions, then your grace I need your seal on the order to bar the Chantry from making _any_ requests of the apothecary.”

Maker, he wanted to fight the Chantry over a _Tranquil_. The anxiety that crawled up Soren’s spine was unnecessary and distracting. If the Revered Mother cried out to Amaranthine over this issue it would land squarely in front of the Grand Cleric of Amaranthine, and regardless of where the idea came from the fact that Soren would commit his signature to the act would make this a fight between him and Brona. She would misconstrue it as him acting up in response to her ruling on his proposed marriage to Morrigan. The pulpits across the Arling would _boil_ with anger against the Sorcerer Arl.

No. He would avoid it.

“How ill _is_ Ansera?” Soren asked, seeking a distraction. He drew his face into a look of concern, grappled with the anxiety and forced it into the role of a compassionate leader. “Sergeant Howe is a capable healer, but I agree with you about the Formari Guildsmen.” No he didn’t. Guildmaster Owain was a useful ally but didn’t even register to him as an annoyance anymore, let alone a threat. “Take me to him, please. I’ll not have anyone in my fortress so ill as to suddenly die from it.”

“This way, your grace.” He temporarily and very, very briefly, distracted the Seneschal from his request. “He has been returned to his quarters.” Good.

It gave Soren time to _think_ , but not nearly enough.

He was not ultimately able to visit Ansera and witness his so-called _crippling condition_. Instead, Garevel’s fiery need to act burned faster than Soren’s mind could conjure up the arguments and reasons against barring the Revered Mother of Vigil’s Keep from using the Apothecary workshop. He found himself in the Seneschal’s office, listening to the Seneschal’s arguments, witnessing his outrage, his offense, his bold and straight-forward right to maintain control over Vigil’s Keep and its day-to-day needs. Their chemist was sick, their healer was dispatched to the far reaches of Northern Thedas, and their Chantry was abusing the only Tranquil within fifty miles of the sanctuary. The Seneschal demanded his Arl do something and Soren was too boxed-in to tell him no. It was humiliating.

Soren signed the document and through the rioting anxiety stamped the order himself on Garevel’s desk. He had never committed to something so rashly, but he lost his words and was won over just enough by his Seneschal’s convictions that he had let his hand hold the pen and then press his ring to the document. He hated himself for it. He hated the fact that he spoke no more than a handful of words and ultimately folded to the human’s will, but he did. He signed it.

No, the Chantry could not be allowed to abuse members of the Vigil’s staff and the fortress’ denizens. No, the Sisters could not rightly bar anyone from the Chantry who had not already earned censure for lewdness or violence or after having disrespected the sanctuary in some way. Yes, it was Garevel’s right to restrict access to the keep’s offices and facilities. And no, Soren knew, he rationally _understood_ , that a tiff between the Seneschal and the actions of a Lay Sister and a lower clergywoman did not automatically warrant an intervention from the Grand Cleric. But, Maker’s Breath, had it all needed to come down to a _Tranquil?_

From Garevel’s office Soren made his unsteady way back up to his chambers. The morning had been wretched, he felt sick again from the embrium, and just wanted to fall into his chair next to his fire with his wife and brother there with him.

 “You let a bigoted old priestess cancel _my_ wedding!?” _Fuck-_

“We never set a date-” Why did he even bother?

“ _You_ allowed a Chantry stooge to cancel _my wedding!_ ”

“You _traitor_ ,” Soren hissed. Zevran didn’t even look sorry! A curse on him and his judgement, how could he just _sit there_ over a cup of lukewarm tea and half-eaten pastries in the middle of the salon? And for his mistress: “Morrigan, enough.”

“I have not yet _begun_!” She was dressed, her hair braided and pinned behind her head, her emeralds circling her throat and wrist: great green stones roped in thick gold. The twisted green and black of her dress was uniquely her style, but she ruined the effect of his tokens and her own beauty by _shrieking_ at him.

“Then let your little bird hear the rest of it as I have no patience left for the matter.” He told her sharply, shaken by the yelling and screaming that hit him at the door “Grow up, both of you! The Grand Cleric is not a dragon or a beast, she is a well-respected and beloved fixture of the Arling and I will not antagonize her.” No more than he already had today!

“How _dare_ you let her control you like this,” Morrigan spat at him and his temper was barely able to rise and meet her. “And add insult to injury by chasing you to Orzammar of all places!”

Soren turned sharply on his heel and slammed the door shut behind him. He left his own apartments and his family to their yelling and harassment. Let Zevran complain about him to his heart’s content, let Morrigan say whatever hateful things she could think of. He would not listen to them. A curse on both of them and their toxic little tea party!

The rain was still storming the fortress so the Wardens in residence were cooped up inside. There would be card and dice games in the mess hall, plenty of conversation and eating- but Soren didn’t desire that much noise right now, and the problem was that he didn’t want to be _alone_ either. Had it been sunny or at least less torrential outside, he would have gladly found one of his Wardens to spar against in the yard and retreat when he was bested or tired from the exercise- but the weather was not on his side. He wanted away from everyone without being _away_ from everyone. 

“Your grace.”

“Pardon the intrusion, Kennelmaster. I’m only here for Dinah.” So he went to find the one companion that wouldn’t try to talk to him and wouldn’t make things awkward if he had no business or ability to fight her with.

“Of course, m’lord. I’ll fetch her.”

While the kennels were partially outside, the dog beds and crates themselves were in a warm, sheltered yard just off the servant’s entrance by the Apothecary workshop. Dinah was the pup of the loyal hound Soren had rescued from Ostagar. Her coat was a bit more yellow than her sire’s but her great black muzzle was just as flopping and broad as Tagar’s had been. She was fully grown and strong like her sire, and as much as he missed the noble old hound he was quite fond of the pup.

She had been mellow since Kieran had left to squire in Denerim at midsummer, but she brightened up now and Soren took a knee to rub his mabari behind both ears and scratch between her large black eyes. He pleased her with more scratches down her broad neck as she panted in the cold and lolled her long pink tongue out with adoration. He felt better already, this was _much_ easier on his nerves.

“I heard about that mess with Ansera, your grace.” Soren didn’t expect the kennelmaster to have anything to say, but looked up when the man decided that yes, he wanted to speak. “It’s a rotten shame is what it is. He’s odd, yes, and far from my favourite person to deal with: but he knew he was in trouble or else he wouldn’t have sent Dirth into the chantry like he did. Poor hound was sick with fright when the Howes brought Ansera back with them.”

“You saw them come this way?” Soren asked.

“Aye, m’lord. They tried to leave Ansera’s mabari with me but I think it would’ve broken the poor boy’s heart to go back in the kennel. You know better than most how hard it is to get a mabari to leave its master when they’re in trouble, but the hound wasn’t nearly as frozen as the elf- pardon me, m’lord.” Soren made a dismissive gesture with his hand to move the topic along. Congratulations, the kennelmaster had realized that the Arl and the Apothecary were both elves.

“So you’re saying Ansera sent his hound away to protect it.”

“I am, m’lord. If he knew the dog was in trouble and dealt with it then I can’t figure out why he wouldn’t have moved himself the same way.”

“Compounder Ansera is tranquil, kennelmaster.” Soren explained, still on one knee and rubbing his hands over Dinah’s loving snout. “When a superior gives a Tranquil an order, they won’t go against it unless it conflicts with something someone _else_ of even higher rank has already said.” Now he stood, brushing his knees off but then letting one hand linger on Dinah’s head. She was a large enough hound and Soren’s own stature was lacking to the point where he could keep his touch on her without bending himself down crookedly. 

“That’s a frightening kind of power to hold over someone,” the Kennelmaster observed with a quiet voice, gaze falling a little with the uncomfortable thought. “So he’ll just go along with anything even when he knows better? Like standing out in this rain like he did all morning?”

“This morning was an extreme circumstance.” Soren told him, soothing some of that anxiety on dutiful man’s face. “Usually Tranquil are only beholden to a certain limit. If you tell one something absurd then they’ll argue against it, and Ansera typically is much faster to question than most of his kind.” Probably due to how Connor and some of the other Wardens treated him. Soren didn’t mind Ansera’s stubbornness _most of the time_ , he was simply never prepared for when the Tranquil questioned or challenged him personally. “I’m not certain how long he lived in the Circle before the war freed him from the Chantry.”

“Uuh… I- thought the Chantry _protected_ the Formari?” Oh-

“They did, of course.” -wait. “Is that not what I said?” The kennelmaster pursed his lips tightly.

“Um, no, your grace.” The man stumbled. “That’s not what you said. I- I should return to my duties, m’lord.”

“Yes,” Soren quickly agreed. “It has been a long and trying morning, kennelmaster, I will leave you to your work.” And then he turned away with Dinah and he left.

 _Quickly_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got another one done today so here's the update to celebrate it!
> 
> Feigning concern over one thing (Jylan) to avoid dealing with another (Chantry) is quintessential Soren Surana for you. This is how he survived the Blight, this is why I love him. 
> 
> Leave a comment below! What do you think of my little backstabber?


	7. Resistance is Costly

Eyes open and _pain._

“ _Ah_ -”

Thick, sore pain down the bridge of his nose, clawing into his sinuses. Harsh, throbbing pain over his scalp and spinning down to the base of his ears. Splitting, cold pain that slid into his ears and pierced too deep to dig it out. Weight and congestion in his chest that caused his breaths to labour and he was in _pain_.

He did not know why he was in pain. He did not know why he was in bed. He did not know where he was. He did not know the time of day.

There was light. He could see. He was in his room but there was light: he was not supposed to be in bed. He moved both arms under the covers, they were sore and stiff and hurt, but he moved them and brought his hands to the edge of the blankets, lifted them and pushed down. He was in pain. He rolled onto his-

The normal breath he tried to take clogged and caught in his throat, twisted and knotted in his lungs. He coughed and his insides shook. The coughs kept coming and they hurt. He could not draw breath and his face became hot, his arm covering his mouth as his chest bubbled and the elbow propping him up began to ache and he-

“ _Dahlen_ -” He was in his room. _Hah’ren_ Velanna was in his room. The light was from candles burning on his desk, the brazier was open with many red coals glowing inside of it. The Warden took his shoulder with both thin hands and leaned over him- he could not stop coughing. “Jylan, you must stay in bed.”

The coughs subsided. He was in pain. He was cold. Velanna pushed him back from the edge of the bed but kept him on his side: it was easier to breathe. She replaced the blankets over him, tucking them around his shoulder and back. His eyes were closed. He was cold.

He remembered being cold. He remembered the rain. He remembered being made to sit in the scent of burning frankincense and cardamom. He remembered the Revered Mother. He remembered the cuts across his calves. He remembered being kept in the dark. He remembered the water trying to drown him. He remembered not being able to breathe. He remembered being dragged back to bed in the Apprentice Quarter. He remembered the brand.

He got out of bed.

“Jylan!” It was daylight and he would return to work. If his shoes were not under the bed then he would not wear shoes. He would not be beaten. He would not neglect his work. He would stand- let him stand. “Jylan I said _stay in bed_. You’re too ill to walk around right now.”

“I am not ill.” His lungs hurt. His head hurt. His sinuses hurt. His ears hurt. All of him hurt. Without the blanket he was cold. He wore only the shirt and trousers meant for under his robes, no socks, no belt. He touched his hair and half his braid had come undone. His hair was wet. “I must return to the workshop.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Lay down.” She stepped in front of him, took him by both sore arms and forced him to sit again. He sat.

“I am tranquil, I must work.” She did not let go of him and he could not stand. He was cold. His neck hurt. His head throbbed. A sharp sound under the bed hurt his ears but became the head and wide shoulders of Dirthamen. The grey mabari pulled itself out into the light and faced him, placing its chin on his knee with a keening whine in its throat.

“ _Dahlen_ you have been through _enough_ today.” He looked at Warden Velanna. He was not a child. She was wearing her blue quilted armour. She had tied her white hair up behind her head, revealing the blight scars curling her ears and marking her mouth under the _valasslin_ of her clan. She did not understand. “Lay down, _sleep_.”

“I am not prepared to die.” He told her. It was necessary that she understand. “I must work.”

She was quiet. She stared at him. He removed her hands from his arms and stood again. The dog whined louder at him and his bare feet hurt against the cold stone floor.

“Why would you make that jump?” He was cold. His white and blue robes were not in his drawers, not hanging from the hooks on the wall. He touched his shirt and the fabric was damp under his arms and around his neck. His trousers were also damp. “Jylan, I need you to _stop_ and talk to me for a minute. Why would you die for missing a day of work?”

“Because I am tranquil, and Tranquil do not eat unless they accomplish a quota of work for the quartermaster.” He found a shirt of undyed wool. He found a pair of undyed hempen trousers. He owned a second belt. “Tranquil who are too ill too work are not fed. The ill who are not fed do not recover. Those who do not recover die. I am not prepared to die, therefore: I will work.”

“This isn’t a human Circle, Jylan. You _live_ -” He was dizzy when he pulled his shirt off over his head. His body ached. His skin was very cold, too cold to warm the- “Stop. _Stop_ …”

Her hands touched his bare arm, the opposite shoulder. He was cold and the contact prevented him from putting the dry shirt on. The longer he stood the heavier his sore head became. He conceded now that it was not wise for him to stand however he did not consider the alternative a valid choice.

“Where did you get these scars?” Warden Velanna’s voice was thick with emotion and it was poorly timed for him as he was required to return to the workshop to see out the remainder of the day. As he had done no work it was unlikely that he would catch up on the ledger. It was preferable to stand and recall the items inked into the workshop list than to remain poignantly aware of Warden Velanna’s attention to his body.

Such focus had not been directed at him since his initial arrival at Vigil’s Keep after the outbreak of the Mage-Templar War, before the establishment of the Amaranthine guildhall. That previous incident had been a catalogue of injuries and features incurred as a result of fleeing from Kinloch Hold for Archmage Surana’s keep with then-Formari Quartermaster Owain. Any attention paid to his physical self by another between his Rite of Tranquility and the Circle’s annulment carried decidedly unpleasant connotations.

“Jylan when did this happen to you?” _Hah’ren_ Velanna repeated from behind him. He was cold, his body hurt. It felt like the hard pulse of his heart was doing more to keep him standing than his legs themselves. “ _Dahlen_ , answer me.”

“During my time in the Ferelden Circle,” he answered. “May I dress myself?” She removed her hands and he pulled down the wool. He covered the fine white lines cut across the backs of his shoulders and the undersides of his forearms. Most beatings did not leave scars, some did, and it was fortunate that he was turned away from her. He covered the pucker and dip of the scar cut into his abdomen with the one hand before smoothing the fabric over it. To distress _Hahren_ Velanna further would complicate his return to work.

He did not remove his trousers. He was cold. He was dizzy. He hurt all over.

“Please come back to bed,” the Warden asked him, returning her hand to his arm but in a gentler fashion than before. “An’eth is on her way with something for you to eat.”

“I have not worked today.”

“Seneschal Garevel has already ruled on the matter and you are going to rest, _Dahlen_. Vigil’s Keep does not need another sick apothecary.” Oh. “Come sit down, please.”

“I am to be returned to the Guildhall?” Vigil’s Keep did not need another sick apothecary.

“You-? _No_.” She pulled on him and he went with her this time. He sat on his bed. His head and shoulders were too heavy to hold up properly. Briefly, he rested his head down on his hands, elbows braced on his knees. She rubbed his back and sat next to him as she spoke. “You’re going to spend today and tomorrow in bed getting better, and we’ll see how you feel after the Chantry’s prayer day.”

He did not understand. He stopped arguing. Seneschal Garevel had already ruled on the matter.

 _Hah’ren_ Velanna stood and lifted his legs back onto the bed. He was propped against the headboard with his pillow behind his back. She arranged the blankets over him, then clicked her tongue and gave a quick gesture to permit Dirthamen to jump up onto the bed and lay its heavy body across his legs. The hound’s belly was warm and it laid its head down on his lap.

His head hurt, his eyes hurt, his shoulders hurt. Moving caused him to cough again and the coughing made him short of breath, flushed his face, squeezed tears from his eyes. His hands ached, his chest rattled. He could not work.

Velanna opened his door and An’eth came inside. She bore a platter he did not understand the need for and atop it she carried a bowl and a plate and a cup and a pot and cutlery. The platter had legs and went across his lap as she smiled at him. The bowl was full of yellow broth and vegetables. The plate held a golden honey-cake drizzled with syrup. The pot held tea of elfroot and lemon. He did not understand: he had not worked today.

“ _Lethallan_ , I need you to help him eat and make sure he stays in bed,” he heard Velanna speak to An’eth. “I need to- there’s something I have to go ask about. Do _not_ let him go back to work, just tell him no.”

“ _Hah’ren_ , is everything alright?” _Hah’ren_ , the elven word for elder, or wise one, a term of respect. _Lethallan_ was a term of affection used for a woman or girl. _Lethallin_ was the same endearment for men and boys. _Dahlen_ was reserved for children. He had never understood _Hah’ren_ Velanna’s intentions in changing his address from _Lethallin_ to _Dahlen,_ he was not a child.

“Yes, just look after him. _Dahlen,_ please eat.” He looked from the food to _Hah’ren_ Velanna when she called on him, and gave no indication beyond that of having heard her. She left and closed the door behind her, keeping the heat from the glowing brazier locked inside with him, An’eth, and the hound.

“Do you need any help feeding yourself?” An’eth asked him. She, like Velanna, was dressed in her armour. She was not wearing all of it: the silverite faulds around her waist, her shoulder guards, her breastplate and greaves were all missing. But she wore the quilted and silverite-heavy tunic of a Grey Warden along with the heavy belt to hold her sword and missing shield. Under the tunic was the hem of her chainmail, and there was the polished edge of her gorget visible around her throat. She smiled at him and sat down on the side of his bed, folding one leg over the other and shaking her orange braids out in the firelight.

His head pounded. His eyes strained. His sinuses were knotted and sore. He was cold and he was dizzy. He reached for her hand to anchor himself against the sensation of spinning.

“You’ve had a very rough day, _lethallin_.”

“I do not remember-” he felt his chest tighten, turned his face away, and tucked his mouth to his elbow when he started to cough again. And cough. And it hurt and he was in pain and he could not breathe. Something salted and slimy came up into his mouth, it coated his tongue, it was unpleasant and unwanted. He did not turn back towards her until he heard her repeating _‘Here, take this’_ to him. It was a simple linen handkerchief embroidered with the Warden Griffon in the corner.

He spat into it and did not give the soiled item back. She poured the elfroot and lemon tea into the cup and offered it to him with both hands. He accepted it. He drank it. It was warm but made him shiver all over. Dirthamen whimpered from across his knees, An’eth took the cup from him and encouraged him to eat the soup.

“I do not understand.” The Seneschal had already ruled on the matter. Was this food for him or was it for An’eth and she had merely brought it to him? He had never taken food from the Warden Mess Hall for himself, he did not know the punishment for it. It would end his chances of recovery should the punishment prove too severe for him in his compromised state.

“Please eat while it’s hot, _Lethallin_. I don’t want Mistress Felsi or _Hah’ren_ Velanna to scold me if you eat it cold.” It would be wrong to see An’eth punished. The soup was heavy with garlic and onion, it had shredded parsley floating on top, and shaved mats of potato and turnip and parsnip floating inside the clear liquid. He held the bowl with both hands and drank the broth. He nearly dropped it on himself for the sudden shaking and shivering but he was cold. He was very cold.

“I can’t tell if it’s the rain or if you already have a fever.” He was ill but he did not remember how he had come to be this way. His grasp of events was compromised. Her hands irritated the brand above his eyes, cupped his cheeks, they settled around his throat.

He remembered the Circle basement. He remembered the incense of the chantry. He remembered walking through the rain. He remembered being beaten. He remembered the guildhall workshop in Amaranthine. He remembered Connor’s workshop in Vigils’ Keep. He remembered the Templar quarters in Kinloch Hold.

He had not worked today, this was not his food to eat, and he would be returned to Amaranthine for angering Revered Mother Senna. Iris. Revered Mother Iris.

“-lan? _Jylan?_ ” He had stopped listening to An’eth. It was not unreasonable that the Templar, kind as she was, would punish-

An’eth was not a Templar. There had been no el’vhen Templars. An’eth was a Grey Warden and Jylan was confused by his fever. He closed his eyes. His eyes were already closed. He opened them? He closed them again.

He was not fit to work. She took the bowl from him. She took the tray from the bed. She pulled on his legs until he slid from the headboard and lay flat on the bed. He was dizzy. He was in pain. He was very ill. He had no right to resist. He was tranquil. Templar favour came with discouraging expectations. A Tranquil’s obedience was required; a Templar’s protection was never guaranteed. He remembered Knight-Lieutenant Hannah.

“Please do not _-_ ” He had no right to resist. He lay still. His lungs hurt.

“Why are you rigid like this? _Lethallin_ , I want to help you-”

“I am already in _pain-”_ He would not resist. He would lay still. His head and nose and throat and ears all hurt. His voice fell, he could not breathe. “- _please do not.”_

“Where is the pain? Tell me and I can go find the _Hah’ren_.” The dog barked and the noise made him recoil in pain. He hurt all over. She held his arm down. Hannah placed her hand on his face.

“Stop touching me.” He’d resisted. He would be punished. He had no right to resist. The warm weight over his legs lifted and vanished, bed shook hard and the door opened. His pain was no justification: he was tranquil. He still feel her hands but he spoke through the voices that fluttered over him. The words felt old in his mouth:

“I apologize for my disrespect. I am tranquil and know my place. I have no business in arguing, it is your right to proceed.”

He was very ill. His body hurt. He was confused.

The Warden Commander of Ferelden’s voice filled the room like a storm surge.

“Warden Corporal _Athras_.” The sound drew the warmth from the coals, snuffed the candles out, and blew frost over the bedding. “ _Get out_ , and if I see you lay a hand on that Tranquil again I will _cut it off!”_

There were more words but the storm pounding the Vigil’s walls blew them down and swept Hannah away. Dog nails scratched the floor, the door rattled shut and the candles and coals burned again. He was cold. He was heavy. He could not move.

Warmth and weight rumbled onto the bed and trapped his legs again. He would not resist- but a harsh male voice spoke up. The weight moved off of him. Settled next to him. Stopped touching him. A thin, cold hand scooped up under his head and lifted, and he smelled hot lemon and elfroot when a ceramic edge was pushed to his lips. He drank the tea until it was gone. His head was placed back down.

He heard the subtle snap and hiss of magic, the warble and resistance of something he had once known but could no longer experience. He was blind to the spell as it formed, and did not resist when warmth rolled down in a line from his throat to his groin, spread itself thick and wide across his body, and then soaked down through his skin, through his flesh, into his bones. The spell radiated down his legs, swallowed his feet, embraced his hands and then crowned his head until even the very tips of his nose and ears were enveloped in heat.

His forehead blazed with pain. It seared and stung, it felt like the skin boiled and his skull was trying to crack open.

Archmage Surana wove a sheet of spell-power that smothered his face. It soaked through his eyes, stretched over his cheeks, invaded his nostrils and filled his mouth. His fingers curled, but he did not resist.

The spell sent him to sleep and the pain was gone.

* * *

 

He’d run away from her. Morrigan had known him for fifteen years, the first of which had been the middle of a terrible Blight threatening to destroy their world, and today was the first time she had ever seen Soren run away.

Oh, he had ordered a retreat before. Cabals of blood mages and disastrous traps in the Deep Roads were not something you could overcome with steel nerves alone. She had seen him freeze from fright and overcome it, watched him grit his teeth in anger and grunt out the order to fall back, but she had never watched him run away. Least of all, _from her._

And they had argued before. They had thundered and yelled and made threats at each other. Morrigan always knew when he was truly furious about something because that would be the point at which he would put distance between them. After exposing themselves to the chaos of his precious Circle Tower during its bloody massacre, he had raged against her. Dismissed and insulted her. Cast her from his side and sent her back to wait in the locked chamber with the very Templars he had warned her not to remain alone with. Their last night in Redcliffe before the march to Denerim, when she had explained the ritual to him: he had lost his temper completely and called her a torrent of violent things he had not apologized for until years later.

Soren’s anger was a fiercely controlled act of nature. She had always known him to have a terrible fire consuming him on the inside, but he masked it with layers upon layers of self-control and deception first. It was not the same as saying he had a _temper_ , that he was colicky or violent or prone to foolish outbursts. No, her love did not have a _temper_ : he had _anger_.

He let its venom drip from his teeth at times, and he flexed his claws now and then as any good leader should. He knew to strike with precision and suffocating force when prompted, and tolerated no challenges against his authority. When he was afraid, because he was only mortal and all men feel fear in the face of great peril, he would fortify himself with his rage and carry forward. It was how he had conquered Redcliffe and returned Morrigan’s son to her arms. Frightened though he had been during the campaign against House Guerrin, Soren had never let that terror cripple him, not to the point of running away.

Morrigan challenged him on this so-called matter of the Grand Cleric as a means of proving Zevran wrong: he was being ridiculous in his assertion that Soren was unwell. Instead it was Morrigan who was left in confusion when Soren barely strung a dozen words together on the matter before turning tail and fleeing from her.

She was uncertain now, a feeling she did not like. Zevran claimed it was not a matter of blackmail: Soren had been himself right up until he had stepped foot inside the cathedral in Amaranthine, and then it had all changed. The two of them pondered and discussed the matter throughout the afternoon because this was not like him: Kieran’s father did not run from _anything_ , least of all a quarrel with Morrigan herself, and certainly never from an old bigot of a priest.

“Should we just let him _go?_ ” Zevran finally suggested what they must have both been thinking. “Go to Orzammar? It’s not like there’s ever a _good_ time to lead an expedition into the Deep Roads, but should I keep arguing against it?”

“Matters in Tevinter are dire at present,” she allowed herself to say, warry of saying too much and compromising efforts in the north. “The Hero of Ferelden cannot vanish again. Ferelden and the Grey Wardens will need a trusted and powerful mage like him to remain _visible_ as news spreads south. If he must travel off somewhere for a season then let him, but the Deep Roads are too much of a risk: I don’t want any whispers of him hearing his Calling again.” She had not expected saying the words out loud to trouble her as they did. _His Calling_. It made her skin crawl.

“The Dalish clan reunion is this year,” Zevran commented, and Morrigan felt herself beginning to scoff. He raised a hand to her. “When nugs fly, I know. But he has all of these books you brought him from the Fade, and those tablets from Tevinter, so why not have him go to the grand meeting of elves and see what the Dalish might have on the subject of blights and taints and cures? It’s safer than the Deep Roads.”

“When nugs fly, Zevran.” She purred the comment and gave him a very tolerant smile from her reclined pose atop her favoured couch in the salon. Zevran was standing with a hand on the back of Soren’s armchair opposite the fire from her. He had considered going after their mutual acquaintance after his flight, but then remained with her instead. Morrigan sighed and looked into the fire again.

The great meeting of the clans could easily be the respite Soren was so eager for. He wanted something to distract him from these matters with the Chantry, and with a Clansman of the Lady Inquisitor nestled within the Grey Warden’s ranks they would doubtless be able to learn the location of the _Arlath’vhen_ , but to what end? Soren would no sooner agree to visit the Dalish than he would partner to dance with the Grand Cleric. If Warden Lavellan was even going to the great reunion of his people, then he was very likely to travel alone.

They were briefly beset upon by one of Morrigan’s least favourite Grey Wardens. While she could certainly empathize with a quest for knowledge that had been ultimately fruitless for the other woman, Morrigan chose to disregard the merits of Warden Velanna’s decision to vanish into the Deep Roads for a decade and cultivated a dismissive attitude towards her instead. That she had married one of Soren’s most trusted Senior Wardens had only strained Morrigan’s opinion further. Zevran liked Velanna just fine.

She asked for her Commander and was told they did not know where he was. She seemed quite put-upon by this answer.

“He cannot be the _only_ Circle Mage in this castle…” Zevran took to Warden Velanna’s comment with great enthusiasm.

“It’s almost like he restricted having mages in the order on purpose!” Perhaps Morrigan had mis-judged her friend’s opinion of the elven Warden in front of them. “But to the matter: sadly yes. Warden Guerrin is perhaps somewhere between Tevinter and the Anderfels by now, and Warden Sephri was sent to my dear Antiva City to meet with the Antivan Grey Wardens some weeks ago.”

Velanna thinned her Blight-scarred lips in a bitter line, then nodded to show her understanding.

“I’ll just have to ask Ansera when he’s feeling better,” she admitted, but in doing so she piqued Morrigan’s curiosity.

“Ask him what, pray-tell?” Something pertaining to the Circles no doubt, if she thought her Commander would answer the matter. Velanna’s eyes were drawn away to look at some nondescript corner of the room before she mustered her will and spoke with her attention properly focused on Morrigan.

“Compounder Ansera has scars on his back and arms he says he was given during his time in the Circle.” An uncomfortable but far from unheard of reality, especially for a Tranquil. “As he’s fallen very ill thanks to the Chantry’s abuse of him this morning, I wanted to ask the Commander instead if the harm would have been done to him before or _after_ he was made tranquil.” Hm…

“My first reaction would be to say after,” Morrigan commented, turning the idle concept over. “But the mages of Kinloch Hold were a cowed and subservient group who let themselves be led along like chattle by the Templar’s hands. I doubt any of them save your Commander would have dared put up a fight if faced with a lash or a belt.” Soren would never have bowed to such indignity. And if he had: he would never have forgiven the Templars for it.

“There’s little point in beating a Tranquil,” Zevran threw this fact out for their attention. “Unless that is one’s particularly awful flavour. Was there not _one_ nice Circle in the entire Chantry?”

“No,” both women told him, and the assassin grinned and laughed to himself a little.

“Excuse me, then.” The Warden sought to leave them but did not manage to get very far. Morrigan felt the thick, smoky ash of magic in her chest twist and press to her ribs with the strong and immediate presence of mystic power. With a blunt crack of force, the towering wooden doors to the apartments flashed open and slammed against the walls, and Morrigan’s concerns for the day increased.

Soren was _enraged_. He was letting it onto his face: his teeth were bare and locked together, his skin flushed, and the taint was eating through his eyes. He spared not a look for the three of them by the fire and raised one hand towards his office, nearly ripping the great door off its hinges. With his fingers still curled in a brutal claw, he looked back at the person who followed in his wake and barked at her:

“Inside!”

“Commander _nothing happened_.” That the young elven woman who followed chose to argue with him spoke both to her own courage and her great stupidity. She was one of Soren’s Wardens, her bright red hair and _valasslin_ were familiar to Morrigan’s eyes but the Dalish woman’s name escaped her. She walked rigidly in her blue Warden tunic, unarmed save a long Dalish dagger at her belt, and stood there defiantly in the doorway. “Sir, I would _never_ -”

“ _Get_ inside before I give you an audience!” Soren threatened with his temper showing, the burning red iron bleeding under the slag. His Warden must have been made of stronger stuff because she set herself firmly in the doorway and looked fast across the three people already present in the chamber before returning to her Commander. She shook her head.

“I won’t be shamed for something I didn’t do,” she told him, speaking to the room now. “Let them listen: I don’t fear them.”

“Well you should!” Soren thundered at her and Morrigan held back a cutting hiss to have him reign in his temper with the door still wide open. The entire keep need not hear his rampage! “Preying on a man too ill to move and already conditioned not to resist! I should have your eyes struck out, Athras!”

“Warden Commander you are _jumping to conclusions!_ ” Morrigan understood the fervor of Warden Athras’ plea this time, if plea was even the word for that strong, bitter challenge she threw at him. “I would never hurt Jylan, _never_ , sir. I wasn’t doing _anything_ to him- I was trying to sooth him! Brush his hair back and help him sleep!” Soren was going this far for the Tranquil?

“I _heard him_ -” The hatred in his voice said yes: he was doing this for the Tranquil.

“I don’t know why he said those things but I won’t be held at fault for something that didn’t even happen!” Athras shouted back, arguing for her life. Her Commander was ready to dishonour and cast down one of his own Grey Wardens for the sake of the Tranquil working in Vigil’s Keep. Morrigan could have expected such concern from Skyhold, but within the Vigil it was strange. “You came right to his side- you know I’m telling the truth! He was covered in blankets and my hand was only at his face!” The Warden marshalled her defenses and ended with: “Commander, my name isn’t _Hannah!_ ”

Soren didn’t scream back at her but his anger remained a violent, vicious thing coiling around him like smoke. His scarred fingers remained curled and the knuckles rubbed past each other in the silent debate between magic and gesture. He shook his head and every part of him remained rigid, the step he took towards her was a complete threat.

“The only reason you think I’m overreacting, Athras, is because you have _no idea_ what a Tranquil is.” He told her with that toxic anger spilling past his clenched teeth. “You have _no concept_ of what Ansera’s existence even means! What he’s used for! You do not soothe a Tranquil anymore than you whisper goodnight to a broom- but you do not, _ever_ , lay a hand on one of them!” Soren’s words shocked Athras. His was a harsh opinion of the Tranquil- but any challenges to it were much better left to private discussions. Morrigan was not going to undercut him while he was in the middle of reprimanding his own underling, and he was not done yet.

“Commander he was _suffering_ under-”

“There is not enough of him left _to_ suffer!” He beat her words down fiercely. “Your empathy is mislaid, Warden, stop pretending to see things that don’t exist! I am well aware of your soft-spot for Ansera and I am warning you now to harden it. Leave him alone! You’ll no sooner find affection from a painting than from a Tranquil and I will not risk further harm to him!” He meant these words. Whatever his reasons, he meant the point as he struck out with his judgement: “If I have any reason at all to suspect, once Ansera is recovered from his fever, that your presence put him back in the mindset of the Circle Tower then Warden Athras you will leave me with only two choices: either I send him _back_ to his guild to protect him from you, or send you _back_ to your Clan to keep you from disgracing the Grey Wardens.”

“You can’t just separate us like that- it’s not fair!” The girl thought fairness had anything to do with this.

“I will remind both of you-” Zevran quickly cut in, alarm clear in his voice. “-that most of Ansera’s pay goes straight to his family in Gwaren. Without his posting here at the Vigil his brothers and sisters will lose his income.”

“Commander, Keeper Lanaya _sent_ An’eth to join the Wardens as a blessed envoy,” Velanna was just as quick to step in, nearly stumbling over Zevran’s words with her own. “Think what you will of the Dalish and our ways, sir, but the insult would be clear to the entire clan.”

 “Then it would seem the only alternative is for Warden Athras to step back and keep her distance from Ansera at all costs.” He was far too smug when he made the announcement. Normally she would revel in little victories of his like this one but today it was cloyingly sweet. He wanted it too much. He was speaking not from a place of superior authority but from a simple imbalance of power: because he could destroy either of them with a word, he would do so.

Morrigan could take delight in his manipulations, but his cruelty was not a flavour she enjoyed.

“I- but…” His restrictions placed a heavy burden upon the warrior in front of them. Her entire face was fallen from the blow, shoulders down, voice meek. “I don’t even know what that would look like.”

“It means that unless you have business with the fortress apothecary, Warden Athras, you will leave him _alone_.”

Soren got rid of them both after that: Athras and Velanna. The mage didn’t even stop to ask the commander her curious questions about Circle abuse, she clearly knew the kind of response the topic would set off from him. The apartment doors swung shut with an echoing clatter and Zevran was the first of them to speak again without the two Dalish.

“I won’t pretend to see the world in a brighter light than most, Soren, but be explicit: what did Ansera _say_ about this Hannah woman?” Zevran was still facing the doors but turned his head to watch his friend. Morrigan wasn’t yet certain if she wanted to acknowledge her partner’s cruelty as a sign of his distress or a simply uncalled for abuse of power. As for Soren himself, his anger had retreated back inside of him, like heat through an ember slowly blackening on the outside, but just as broiling hot under the ash. His sigh and the roll of his shoulders were just an act to help him pretend calm again.

“In literal terms, he apologized for resisting her and reminded her that she had every right to do as she pleased.” Hearing him explain the matter was revolting and Morrigan quite hated Zevran for having to ask. “In explicit terms, he told her to rape him.” _Ugh,_ she didn’t _bother_ to hide the shiver of disgust.

Zevran, on the other hand, was holding himself with great care and was staring in such a way that had kept Soren from moving either.

“I thought you said life in Kinloch Hold was different from Kirkwall.” Zevran used the words like an accusation and Morrigan _refused_ to play peacemaker between them tonight.

“For the mages? Completely.” Soren unstuck himself and looked to his friend with an open challenge. “I never said a word about the Tranquil.”

“How do you just _ignore_ something like that when passing judgement?”

“Because the Circles are gone, most of the Tranquil are dead, and the vast majority of the ones left in Ferelden are in Amaranthine.” _Enough_.

“Stop.” She meant it for both of them, moving until she was next to her love and could give one man and then the other in turn a warning look. Honestly, there were plenty of other things for Zevran to become angry over and this need not be one of them. “Enough.” They clearly needed a break from one another.

She hooked a finger under Soren’s chin and pulled him up. He did not like it and resisted her kiss, but still permitted it. He was surly and ill-tempered but no longer out of control. He even had an announcement for her once it was done.

“Whatever important business you wanted to discuss with me this morning, Morrigan, say it now because tomorrow I am going to Amaranthine.”

“Flying free of your nagging woman, are you?” She pricked him with the words and saw the way he thinned his lips, the spark in his blue eyes that he put true effort into smothering. _Very_ ill-tempered.

“I am the Arl and I have business there.” Proud, arrogant man, her Warden.

“Very well.” She kissed him again, with less force this time. Morrigan then pushed, bullied, and physically moved both of them on to matters of _more important_ business.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does getting caught in the rain make you sick? No. Does getting hypothermia symptoms and then going down face-first in the mud of a medieval settlement full of horses, pigs, dogs, chickens and no septic systems of note make you sick? PROBABLY, YEAH. ISN'T IT FUN BEING A MAIN CHARACTER, JYLAN?


	8. Patronage

 

Soren slept fitfully beside Morrigan that night. He’d expected a better night’s rest with her home and his temper exercised on Athras but he was mistaken. Soren woke up several times without excuse, felt Morrigan’s warm breaths slowly trailing down his back and shoulder, and just laid there sleepless in the dark. When his mind wandered and he felt like he might be able to hear the echoes of the Fade calling him, it wasn’t… quite right.

Curse that tranquil for putting honey in the Vigil’s soap this month. Maybe that was what kept waking him up: the oily, cloying sweetness that saturated his fingers and dripped down his face when he washed up before bed. It was hanging there around his curled hands, down his own cheeks, and Morrigan had washed with the same syrupy cake he had: turning to her was no respite.

 _“Did you complete your task?”_ He hated the smell of honey. The taste and colour and everything else were fine with him, and he wasn’t one to turn down a dollop of it in cream or tea or drizzled over pastry, but the smell? He hated the smell of honey. “ _I instructed you to go to the apprentice quarters and take something from whomever you found there. What did you bring back?”_

Soren hated the smell of Irving’s office. It was the smell of a failed challenge. That itching, greasy reek that had stung his nose from the inside every time he’d gone inside. The First Enchanter had delighted in the lumps of wax that had sunk one by one into a pool of their own oils from a diffuser in his office. Irving’s mother had tended hives and his childhood home had been filled with flowers and liquid gold. Irving had known Knight Commander Greagoire hated bees.

Soren covered his eyes with one hand in bed, a gesture he couldn’t have made standing in that office.

“ _What did you bring back?”_ Nothing, the first time. Soren had taken a scent box from another apprentice: a little keepsake from the girl’s father and filled with some old cinnamon that had lost its stink. He only remembered the spice because that had been her argument against him: _‘It’s too old, it’s lost it’s smell-!_ ’ He’d taken it anyways.

Jowan had seen him bully it from the new apprentice’s wailing grasp. Seen, not watched. Watching implied he had been too scandalized by Soren’s sudden change in behaviour to do anything about it. He’d seen him, and when yelling had just made Soren walk faster to try and get back to Irving’s office with the prize, his human friend had tackled him to a wall and forced it from his hands with plenty of kicks and punches to flavour his opinion. All Soren had brought back to his new mentor was a bruised side and cut lip. He’d failed his very first assignment.

“ _Cruelty,_ ” the First Enchanter’s green robe cut with real gold, not the yellow alloy that mimicked and mocked such finery. “ _Is a powerful and effective method of control. However, as you just experienced: being unaware of one’s witnesses and surroundings may lead very abruptly to our own humiliation and undoing.”_ Wise, if cryptic words at the time. All Soren had known while standing there was that he’d owed the other apprentice an apology, Jowan an explanation, and himself a sharp kick. “ _Tell me, child. As one so often on the receiving end of others’ cruelty, how did it make you feel to be in control for that brief moment before it all went wrong?”_

He’d thought his way through the answer before giving it. Thoughtful but short silences were one of the reasons he’d been brought before that desk in the first place. He had been told that that office was a safe space, but Soren had already learned from his first five years in the Circle and had understood that _nowhere_ in the tower was _‘safe’_.

What was it he’d said? Oh right:

“ _I don’t know, sir, if you want a real answer or the right one.”_

Irving had liked that comment. He’d liked that twelve year old brat who had been regularly mistaken for a junior apprentice for his unbroken voice and pitiful stature but had still known how to please. That quiet, soft-spoken, lying boy who had known the only right answer was the one that didn’t get you a beating after giving it.

“ _Let us hear both! What is your real answer, my boy?”_

 _“I hated it.”_ Such a stupid and dangerous thing to admit to someone who would go on to teach him to want _more_. “ _I felt like I was betraying her. I’m not a Chantry Initiate or a Templar Squire, First Enchanter, I’m an Apprentice and I should’ve been helping her get used to the Circle, not making her first week even worse.”_ Oh, the way his stomach had dropped when he’d known Irving didn’t like the sound of his words. Another reason he’d been chosen: his skill with sigils had paled in comparison to his ability to read faces. Nothing about Irving’s face had changed except his eyes, but that had been enough. He had displeased him and Soren had been stupid: he’d expected a switch or a belt for a bad answer, but that had never happened. Seven years Soren had spent as the First Enchanter’s Apprentice, and not once did he ever remember Irving laying a hand on him as punishment.

“ _What is the correct answer, Apprentice?”_ But that was not to say Irving had never _punished_ him.

“ _It felt like a wasted opportunity._ ” Soren remembered feeling blinded by Irving’s disapproval over the first answer. He remembered searching feeble and lost trying to find the right words to correct and gain back the ground he’d lost. He’d been so scared and scared to _show it_ that he’d tried to make his voice sound hateful to mask it, but failed. “ _A bad call. There’s nothing I want in the Apprentice quarters, sir. I should have liked to wait until meal times and taken something good to eat instead. I’d rather have an apple than a box of old snuff.”_

 _“Then wait you shall.”_ He knew _now_ what the right answer was. Over twenty years of distance could make most school problems seem very simple. The right answer was that: if you were going to be cruel to someone below you then you had to be certain your allies were already too warry to publicly challenge you, or they just couldn’t know what you were doing at all.

He doubted, laying here in this bed two hundred miles and three wars away from Kinloch Hold, that Irving would have cared if he’d given a _perfect_ answer anyways. He’d learned the lesson in the end but not executed the command the first time. The punishment had been very like the First Enchanter:

“ _Then wait you shall_ ,” he’d said with the tangled wires of his grey-black beard spreading around his smile. “ _For a young mage must eat, and that can be difficult when singled out. We shall see how you fare between now and tomorrow afternoon with no meals from the Circle kitchens. You will attend dinner service tonight without a plate and then proceed to prayer. Tomorrow you will have to make due on your own for breakfast and lunch as well.”_

Soren threw off the covers, he was tired of not sleeping. He pried Morrigan’s hands off his skin. He hated the stink of the soap on his hands, how its oils reeked from the wash-water still resting in the basin. He found his trousers and boots and a housecoat of warm fur to throw around his shoulders.

“…Soren?”

_“If your focus is affected by hunger, you’d best learn to hide it from me. Good day, Apprentice.”_

“I’m going to go look at the eluvian. Go back to sleep.” He left the room.

Ever since Vigil’s Keep had been rebuilt from the Thaw and Soren had finally returned to Amaranthine with his relationship to his family in tact, there had been an eluvian in the fortress. The ancient el’vhen mirror was kept in the magical laboratory both Soren and Morrigan used for their respective purposes: Soren had been seeking a cure to the taint and the Calling for years, while Morrigan carried on her vocation of recovering ancient lore. Connor had seen it, although Soren doubted the younger mage had known what it was except an artefact of great size and strange glass. The mirror was not hidden, just secured.

For years their primary concern had been keeping anyone within the Vigil from falling through or tampering with the Eluvian. Servants never entered the workshop, although most would have hesitated to trespass in the private space of mages anyways. When Morrigan was away from the Keep Soren typically kept the door locked as only he and Morrigan had the keys to it. When they were both gone from the castle, it was not just locked but then magically sealed to prevent tampering.

It had never occurred to them that the danger would be something else coming through the mirror and _into_ the Vigil. Nor had the same thought ever occurred to the Lady Inquisitor.

At times like these Soren wished he had made a real effort to keep in contact with the Qunari Sten he had befriended and respected during the Blight. Alistair had seen him and knew he was Arishok now after the devastation wrought at Kirkwall, but Soren himself had been too involved destroying golems, hunting Darkspawn, and trying to find a place to start with a cure to continuously send letters to Par Vollen addressed only to “Sten of the Beresaad”. Writing to the Arishok now with nothing but _‘What the hell are you doing with those el’vhen mirrors? Enjoy the enclosed cookies.’_ didn’t seem worth the embarrassment.

Morrigan wanted the eluvian out of Vigil’s Keep. Soren was not thrilled with this idea because it required the fuss and mess of actually moving the twelve-foot-tall mirror without scratching or damaging it. The move had been stressful enough the first time, and finding a new location for it would not be easy. He didn’t want it to be more than a few hours from the fortress either. That mirror was Morrigan’s link to and from home, he wanted it close without actually being inside the castle and posing a threat to the people living there.

He’d agreed to the move but left most of the decision-making to her. It was her mirror, her area of expertise. Soren’s expertise was for completely different things: he was an Arl and an Archmage and a Grey Warden, and most importantly, at dawn he was a guild patron.

He spent most of the remaining night in the laboratory doing whatever he could be bothered to with the reagents, texts, and the looming presence of the mirror itself. When Morrigan slunk in to coax him back to bed, he consented. The laboratory was cold, their room was warm, and he liked the smell of her hair even if it wasn’t enough to push him to sleep.

At dawn Soren saw Ansera again. The tranquil was in a miserable state but would not die from his fever. He had a warm brazier burning by his bed and Soren assigned a servant to oversee his meals and care. Magic could heal injuries but it couldn’t banish a fever, only ease the symptoms and suffering. Ansera was not emotionally effected by his condition but he was still in physical pain and too weak to do more than lay there glassy-eyed and more vacant than normal. Soren filled the failed mage’s body with soothing warm energy again to ease the pain and shivering, and after Ansera had eaten and swallowed a great deal of tea he smothered the tranquil in another sleeping spell that knocked him out completely. He would not die from this damned fever.

It was Soren’s turn in the rain after that. He took Oghren and Warden Mahanon Lavellan with him on horseback to Amaranthine City. They rode for much of the morning with Soren blatantly ignoring his constable repeatedly saying _‘So you traded the one elf for another elf’_ and _‘why are you always travelling with elves it’s like you’re best friends with one of them’_ and _‘stop fighting with Zevran it’s upsetting the kids. And by kids I mean Wardens’_.

“ _Stop,”_ he hissed, and heeled his horse for more speed in the rain just to give Oghren something _else_ to complain about. Lavellan at least kept his mouth _shut_ for the long ride.

While Chantry Mothers and Sisters administered to their flock throughout the week, the day of rest was when _all_ of the faithful who were otherwise too busy for the Maker to come to the Chantries and partake of Andraste’s Song. Amaranthine City of course had more than the one sanctuary beyond Our Lady Redeemer, but the cathedral’s bells announced the day of rest with more gusto than the smaller sanctuaries scattered throughout the many city wards. Soren was just thankful that the day of rest and prayer meant that he could, most likely, get in and on with his business today without anyone saying the words “Grand”, “Cleric”, or “Brona” to him in the same sentence.

They were not here to encroach on Bann Talbind’s day and force him to play host to his Arl.

They were not here because of travel itineraries for the Grey Wardens moving about Thedas on their Commander’s orders.

They were here to visit the guild Soren had founded and still heavily patroned as an Archmage: the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine.

In a city like Amaranthine a great deal of places could be described as “just off the market”, what mattered most was _which_ market you were referring to. Logic and good city planning should have placed the guildsmen down in the midtown market where the related crafters guilds had their homes: carpenters, glass blowers, weavers, jewellers, book-binders, printers, apothecaries, perfumeries, and _so on_. However, at the time of their founding Soren had possessed neither the immediate wealth nor the generosity to bully and push around enough of the mid-town market’s crowded neighbourhood to make space for the tranquil. So no, they were not in the place they belonged.

They were close to the vendor’s market where the fruits, fabrics and grain from the Arling passed onto ships bound for other ports around Ferelden’s north shore and away across the sea to the Free Marches. Seafood, wines, grains, fruits, leathers, timber, wool, textiles, stone, and other raw materials traded hands in bulk quantities, but wherever there were hard-working labourers and sailors there was also an abundance of cheap food and cheaper ale. This was not the safest district Soren could have placed a group of people who knew no sense of fear and had a conditioned need to please and display obedience.

But they had endured.

He had shoved the tranquil into the first vacant stone building on comparatively cheap property he could find: an abandoned smithy ‘ _just off the market’_. The solid stone foundation and thick walls had been appealing to the only two tranquil Soren had allowed to have any input in the decision to purchase and renovate the building. Soren himself had just wanted something solid enough to put them inside, big enough for them to actually put the space to use, and yet still inside the city walls so there could be no accusations of him ultimately abandoning them.

The low stone building had been expanded with a second story after the initial purchase, making it a tall granite square now, with the College of Enchanters’ banners fluttering from the second story windows and the Bear of Amaranthine prowling in the wooden frames detailing the wood. It was wide and part of the building’s lower floor was cut down into the bedrock much of Amaranthine sat atop. The front doors were open and protected by a tall blue awning that shielded two steel-clad members of the city guard: the effective protection provided for the tranquil inside.

The formari had also purchased two adjacent buildings in the last few years to accommodate for their guild’s needs, with Soren leaving those transactions to the guidance and care of Bann Talbind. He could look up now and the three-story stone and wood construct next to them bore plenty of signs of fresh construction: newly woven banners with the Formari’s glowing hand dripping in the heavy rain, old wooden beams resting against new stones and fresh mortar. The second building was located behind the square façade Soren was most familiar with, and was similarly two stories tall.

For a guild that made as much money as the Formari and their high-quality, specially enchanted wares, the increasing size of the complex made sense. Soren hoped they would request and make plans for a wall soon, it would ease his sense of obligation to them.

“Lavellan, unless you need something from inside then you two are free to find someplace to warm up and settle for a few hours.” They left their horses in the care of one of the district stables, and Soren gave his dismissal to the two Wardens as the complex formed from the city lanes.

“You weren’t kidding when you said we were going to ride into the city just to ride back again, were you?” Lavellan asked him.

“I never kid, it requires a sense of humour.” Oghren laughed at him, Lavellan just looked annoyed.

And yet the Dalish mage followed him. Mahanon Lavellan was clan and kin the Lady Inquisitor, and had arrived in Amaranthine four years ago destitute and seeking a way to his clanswoman’s keep, Skyhold. Soren had not been in Amaranthine to recruit him as he’d been off in the deep roads and making inquiries and painful excursions both above and below grounds looking for the secrets of a cure. Lavellan had somehow found his way into the Silver Order with intentions of joining the Grey Wardens, but his change of heart about the Inquisitor had never explained itself in Soren’s presence. With the threat of war between Amaranthine and Redcliffe Soren had consented to give him the chalice a year ago with the other willing members of the Silver Order, and Lavellan had served well for a man his age: he was easily ten years Soren’s senior. His only real draw-back was that he was Dalish-trained, not Circle, with his magic.

Oghren grumbled but declined to drink alone, following Soren and Lavellan through the Guild’s open doors.

The first thing Soren noticed was the burn of sandalwood up his nose. The second was the barely resisted curl of his own lips with the intrusive thought: _‘I hate tranquil_ ’.

The fine granite floors of the guild shop opened in front of them with a perimeter of tables blocking access to walls bricked with shelves filled with magical supplies and potions. Crafting reagents, books, herb bundles, swords and daggers and spears in standing cases, vambraces and gloves and catalogues of fabrics for woven clothing, broaches, amulets, rings, and belts. If there was a way for the formari to meld lyrium into the item, then it was available for sale in their guild.

“Ashera!” For such a rainy day, Soren was modestly surprised to hear a small fuss right by the entryway as they came inside. One of the guards they passed was also giving a cautious look inside, but then took note of the Grey Wardens and went back to minding his post. “ _Ash-er-ah­,_ that’s his name, and he’s supposed to be here. _”_

The speaker was quite loud and had not been present for long: his short, ratty leather cape was dripping and his black braid was a wet rope down his back, bangs shedding water over the table he was leaning across. He was elven, and a tall one. His short breeches, thin sleeves and leather armour girdle all suggested a sailor by trade: not the sort of person who should have had the coin to enter this place.

“There are no guildsmen by that name,” the branded woman answered him with her blank, monotone voice. Soren wouldn’t have paid them any more attention except that the elf, who was in front of them, didn’t take kindly to the news.

“Well where the hell else am I supposed to go looking for a tranquil in Amaranthine?” He demanded, but with more exasperation than violence, hands in the air that quickly fell again. “Are there other workshops? Other guilds? Did you go and loan him out to the blacksmiths or something?” Fereldan accent, but somewhere south. Soren was only standing here still because the tall sailor was blocking the way to move beyond the shop floor and into the guild itself. “Aren’t you supposed to have a manifesto or something of all your members? Like cargo and crew on a ship?”

“I am capable of checking the registry,” the failed mage replied in her dead tone. “But there is no Jeevan Ashera among the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine.”

Soren closed his eyes, shit. Next to him Lavellan’s muted curiosity over the exchange shifted to full attention. Oghren was playing with the sounds of _An-ser-ah_ and _Ash-er-ah_ by repeating them over and over again as if the slip of a chantry pen was so difficult to assume.

“That’s why I asked if there’s _another_ guild I can go check.” Whoever this elf was, the Wardens knew who he was looking for.

“There is not. Please wait one moment while I check the list of names.”

“I’ll be here.” The sailor’s voice was heavy with disappointment as the tranquil turned and vanished in her blue and white robes. His expectations were low, and at his feet he kicked at the large canvas bag resting on the floor. It knocked over and he grabbed it by its drawstring cord, hefting it up enough to grab it by the neck and move out of the way.

He saw them briefly and then looked a second time. He was darker, almost Rivaini like Ansera himself, and the folds of his pierced ears moved more out than up, making them more obvious. Again, a trait he shared with the compounder. Soren was not enjoying the way things were shaping up. The frown he gave them was followed by bitter words.

“Isn’t _three_ a bit much?” He grumbled, addressing them but more for the sake of filling the air with words. His annoyance faded and he carried his bag away from the table and stood apart from the wares, dropping it again and folding his dark arms. His shirt didn’t go down much further than his shoulders and his cape had no fur inside of it to keep him warm. He’d come off a northern ship to be dressed like this in Ferelden of all places. “I’m not stealing nothin’ from a bunch of mages.” And then he turned away, arms still folded, standing too far from any table to attempt to slip something into his pockets.

Tranquil were not mages.

“I ain’t no city guard,” Oghren grumbled, folding his own arms in a surly way. Like the elf however, he spoke simply to be heard and looked away after the tranquil woman. Soren ignored both of them and proceeded through the-

“Commander,” -damn it, Lavellan.

“Yes?” He looked and the Dalish Warden was looking at him very openly from under the blue-edged cowl of his silverite hood. Soren was wearing his own helmet after their ride through the rain. Mahanon’s green eyes were the sort of bright and wide colour humans _loved_ to liken to grass and leaves and other elfy things, the fact that the man was past forty couldn’t compete with those idyllic little phrases.

Why was he feeling so sensitive? Soren couldn’t give himself a _shake_ but he felt distaste crawling up his throat. He didn’t want to feel like this.

“Sir, he’s a taller version of Ansera.” And Ansera was already noteworthy for his height.

“You’re the last person I expected to hear say _all elves look the same_ , Mahanon.”

“Are you saying your Chantry never made a mistake when writing down names?” This was important to him, _wonderful_.

“I did not say _anything_ about the Chantry, Warden, and in this place: you won’t either.” Soren wasn’t going to fight with him, he had enough people waiting to do that back at Vigil’s Keep. He was severe but then made the choice to relent, nodding directly to the elf who was no longer looking at them but was probably aware of their whispering. “Fine. _You there_ , sailor.”

Soren stepped forward, sword at his side and staff across his back. The elf proved he’d been paying attention by turning quickly, and the movement of his cape showed how close his fingers were to the hilts of several knives. He was cautious, and that was not unwise, but he did not drop his hands and that made him a mild threat.

“I’ll be about my business shortly, Serrah, as soon as the lady comes back,” he explained himself politely enough for there to be no insult. “I’ll not trouble the guild further once I have my answer.”

“Formari services are expensive even for the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, what business does a man of your station have that requires one of them?” It was a loaded question and Soren meant it as such, aware that Lavellan would probably disapprove but not be able to say as much. “Are you on an errand from your captain, perhaps?”

“Grey War-? Oh, oh that’s a bear…” No, it was not the Amaranthine Bear on Soren’s armour, it was a completely different animal. The elf dropped his arms away from his knives. “It’s only a personal matter, Grey Warden, I’m looking for my brother.”

“From among the tranquil?” Soren pressed. Now that the sailor was looking at him the similarities were becoming more obvious. The same colour green in his eyes, but with thin scars from knife-blades tugging at his lips and cuffing under his dark jaw. His nose was more flat than long and his chin was square to match. He looked like Ansera only more rugged and weather-worn, clearly older than the tranquil and heavier from a life of labour.

“My brother Jeevan was taken from the Gwaren Alienage when we were boys, and sent to the Circle of Magi.” The sailor explained. It was the right city. “We never heard from him again, not until last year when travellers who claimed to know him showed up and started asking questions. They said he survived the war but he’s a tranquil and can’t travel, so he’s living here now in Amaranthine.”

“A whole year to come looking for him?” Soren questioned, just following idle curiosity now.

“You marked me right as a sailor, Serrah.” And then the man did a strange thing: he broke into a smile and gave a dumb little laugh. “It’s not like I could just tell the Captain that _no no,_ we don’t need to go to Wycome and back to Antiva City again! _Definitely_ better to fight the summer trade winds back to Ferelden.” Trying to get any sort of letter from Gwaren to a sailor criss-crossing the trade routes could have taken a year just by itself. Soren let the topic settle, providing the opening for:

“I have completed checking the registry,” that monotone nothing from the tranquil woman. “There has never been a Jeevan Ashera among the Formari Guildsmen of Ferelden. Perhaps you would like to try another name?” The sailor’s face fell completely, and he shook his head at her.

“I know my brother’s name,” he said, admitting defeat. “Maybe they meant the Arling and not the city, but in that case I haven’t got time or coin enough to search the whole territory for him.” He waved off the tranquil the way a normal shop keep may have understood, but she merely stood there staring blankly with no tasks to focus herself on. Uncomfortable with her stare, the elf looked at Soren again and inclined his head. “I’ll let you get on with your business, Grey Warden and get back to what a man of _my station_ ought to be doing. Good day.”

He took up his bag and walked away, giving Soren a wide berth and a respectful nod towards Oghren and Lavellan. Soren let him go, counting quietly to three in his head.

He heard Lavellan take a breath to say something stupid and interrupted his warden:

“Master Ansera,” Soren called firmly, and turned after the elf who had stopped short. The sailor looked at him in surprise, but then a trace of confusion crossed his dark face.

“I- it’s _Ashera_ , Grey Warden.” Bold of him to lay down the correction in this city of all places, but to be fair he’d been on a boat for the last year. “Is there something I can do for you?” His tone was doubtful.

“It’s wrong, but close enough.” Soren told him and let the implied insult do its dirty work for him. “What does your brother look like, sailor?”

“Maker, I haven’t seen him since we were kids. Why?”

“Give me a guess then. You want to find him, don’t you?” The sailor considered this odd request, then gave an elaborate shrug and roll of his head.

“Best I have is what our mother used to say. Black hair she could never keep from flying everywhere, and green eyes like mine. I guess he’d be a bit lighter than I am after being locked up in a tower for years. Oh, and, that mark thing they’ve all got on their faces. He’s probably got that.” Good enough.

“May I know your name, sailor?” He was making the other elf very, very uncomfortable with these questions, but it was the price Soren was going to demand for having to find a fourth horse and have Garevel work out possible accommodations for this… _brother_.

“Samar Ashera, Grey Warden,” Ansera’s brother answered, and then showed his wrist where he wore a tooled arm-band of leather and a company design. “Contracted with the Eighth Lion Merchant Fleet, and most recently of their ship the Lady Freeborn from Wycome.”

“And how long is the Lady Freeborn in port here in Amaranthine?”

“Three days, Serrah. Do you need something shipped? Our next port of call is Kirkwall.” Two nights’ accommodations wouldn’t make much difference to the Vigil.

“No, Master Ashera. But there is a tranquil elf who looks remarkably similar to you working at Vigil’s Keep.” The sailor’s nerves dropped like dead weight, his shoulders fell, head up straight. Soren could have bounced a coin off his forehead. “Understand, if you will, that a young elven apprentice could hardly be expected to argue with the Circle for saying his name wrong- or for simply changing it outright. Compounder _Ansera_ is contracted from the Guildsmen to keep the Grey Wardens supplied and our fortress serviced as a chemist.”

“Andraste’s tits, thank you!” Ashera hooted, hands up like he might rush Soren with an incredibly unwise embrace. “Where- exactly, is Vigil’s Keep? I’ve never been further inland in Amaranthine than the city walls.”

“Half-day’s ride south, the road marks it clearly.” Soren made himself smile. He did not want to smile. He made himself look happy to have obliged the sailor with his help. At least saying the word _ride_ dampened some of the other elf’s enthusiasm. Half-day’s ride meant a full day’s walk, or coin for a horse. “Warden Lavellan, since you seem so invested in this…”

“Not for me, sir.” Mahanon told him quickly but without heat. Oh, he probably wanted to be sharp with Soren, but hadn’t he gone ahead and done what the older Warden _wanted?_ “For Warden Velanna. But yes, Master Ashera, what the Commander says is true.”

“The Comma-what?” Ashera wisely blundered.

“He’ll even pay fer your horse, elf.” Oghren made the stupid announcement and Soren- “He owes me five silver anyways.” –bit his tongue.

Ashera turned back to look at Soren, intimidation and fear running quick and fast through him. Good. It was something.

“You’re the _who-?”_

 _“_ Wardens, I still have my business to begin with Guildmaster Owain,” so he brushed aside the gobsmacked elf with a careless gesture and change of subject. Let him sweat it out. “If Master Ashera is newly arrived in the city, perhaps he’ll appreciate a hot meal and a drink while the Guildmaster and I meet. Let him make the decision of what to do with his shore-leave on his own terms. Make sure I can find you when I’m done.”

“Yessir.”

“Yes, Commander Surana.”

Soren’s Wardens left with Ansera’s brother still spluttering and confused between them. The last thing Soren heard was a shocked _‘was that the Hero of-!?’_ before they were out in the drizzling rain again.

“I apologize on behalf of the Guildsmen for our rowdy patron, Archmage Surana.” The blank-faced woman who had observed all of this stated in her dull voice. “I understand from your statement that you wish to speak with Formari Guildmaster Owain. Shall I find him for you?”

“Kindly yes,” Soren answered, still looking the way his men had gone. “He will not be expecting me, but tell him I have business regarding the Guild’s charter. He will not keep me waiting for long.”

“Yes, your grace.”

The Formari left to perform her task.

Soren stood there, and waited. 


	9. The Guild Charter

Owain did not leave Soren waiting long.

Although it was not his favourite thing to dwell on, the Arl and the Guildmaster had known one another for many, many years. In fact, there were few people still alive today whom Soren had known for _longer_ than Owain in one form or another. Within a week of each other the senior apprentice had vanished from the same dormitory that Soren had been accosted and dragged from by the Templars for his Harrowing. Unlike Harrowed Apprentices who had reappeared the next morning dizzy and delirious from lyrium, the Tranquil had always vanished for a period of days before finally emerging from the bowels of the tower to take up their new duties.

Soren and Owain had reappeared on the same morning on completely divergent paths. One, a Mage; the other, a Tranquil.

 Owain had submitted to the Rite of Tranquility willfully, or as willingly as someone could in the face of certain death. They had not been friends before the Rite and had certainly never attempted it afterwards, in fact: Soren was very firmly against reliving _any_ memories of a boisterous, loud, and frankly stupid upperclassman. That person had died years ago, it was just an echo of him that met Soren in the Guildhall.

“Arl Surana. I did not know to expect you.” Owain’s face, without a real spirit to give it life, was perpetually sad. It was as if the Rite had condemned him to live like a man forever watching his home burn away in the pouring rain. His face was as hopeless as what little of his rust-coloured hair remained around his ears and the back of his head. He was dreary and miserable, his voice dull and utterly blank.

“Guildmaster Owain.” Soren inclined his head as far as was necessary, along with the proper courtesy: “Are your people well, and your guild properly supplied?”

“Yes, your grace.” For how uncomfortable Owain’s existence was, he was still somehow not as pathetic as he had been on that night six years ago when he’d staggered his way wet and shivering into Vigil’s Keep. Gone were the tattered robes and shoes with worn-out soles and open holes across the toes. No more half-starved cheeks and sickly darkness around his sad eyes. He wasn’t shivering too hard to speak the way he had been on that strange night when he’d pleaded as well as a Tranquil could for sanctuary:

 _“If we are not permitted to remain in Vigil’s Keep then we will surely perish of exposure before any other violence befalls us.”_ That was what he’d said and as Owain felt no compulsion to exaggerate or lie, he’d meant it. They would have died but Soren had not allowed it.

Permitting two Tranquil into the Vigil had been almost nothing to him, it had been the four only two days behind them. The seven the month after that. The stragglers brought to Amaranthine by either their mage or Templar sympathizers. Taking in two of the Tranquil had been an obvious and easily accepted burden to Soren. Feeding and trying to accommodate over thirty of them just in the first two months had been overwhelming. When they’d tried to sway him to let them build a hall for themselves within the Vigil’s complex or on the periphery beyond her walls he had shut the idea down: absolutely _not_. They were better off in the city and well away from _him_.

“I’ve come today to see you about your Guild’s charter, Owain. Take me inside.” The Tranquil nodded to him, the heavy gold chain and medallion of his office swaying as he made the motion before turning away to do as commanded. They left the public front of the guild hall by stepping around the tables and then under a rich purple curtain, which moved them along the edge of a busy but _quiet_ workshop and then down a stone corridor.

Owain wore his chain and that was all that openly distinguished him from the other Tranquil in his care. His robe was exactly the same as Ansera’s: white sleeves and a dark blue body and white hood, keys jangling at his belt. He kept the hood up, they all did: hiding their brands from one another as well as anyone like Soren who was unfortunate enough to have business behind the curtain.

They finally reached an office, and Owain went directly to a large cabinet resting against the back wall behind his wide desk. Both were fine pieces of furniture and reminded Soren vaguely of the large items used to fill the empty rooms of the Circle tower. It made sense: the Tranquil had constructed everything they could for the Circle, so that had probably included the furniture.

“There is seating available.” Soren could see that, but declined with a simple gesture. “Is there a specific clause within the Charter that you wish to discuss?”

“Yes.” He gave the simple answer first, standing there with his arms folded. “There is an issue regarding the safety of all guild members that I would like to see properly addressed. If the Charter doesn’t already cover the matter, then I will see it amended.”

“I understand.” The case was unlocked with a mundane key, and then the white light of a rune was ignited with a mark Owain traced with the end of another key. He drew the runes together in a complex web, and the case gave a seize and release before opening properly. Inside was a large leather-bound ledger, not deep, but very tall and wide in dimension. Owain grasped the book and brought it to his desk, then returned to the case to shut the doors, then came _back_ to the desk.

His slow need to take tasks one by one by one took long enough for Soren to open the cover of the Charter himself. He was surprised when he didn’t lift it to find the illuminated face of the guild crest, but rather a stack of neatly ordered pages? These weren’t part of the Charter, but since when did Formari mis-place-?

“My apologies, Arl Surana.” Owain was quick for a Tranquil to return to the desk and gather the pages. They were the same dimensions as the book and there were perhaps five or six sheets printed over with controlled, neat tranquil script. “These are not ready for you.”

“What are they?” He interrupted Owain’s cleaning with a hand pressing down over the top sheet. He let the pointed fingertips of his gauntlets mark the supple paper, and Owain stopped moving to prevent him from tearing them.

“Amendments to the Charter.” The Guildmaster answered him and then relented completely, handing the pages over to him. Soren took the wide sheets in hand and then looked behind him for that chair. He hooked a foot behind it and dragged it closer, then sat down. Owain had displayed tact! That was not the actual name of the document Soren was holding. Instead, it was:

_A Compilation of Recommendations for the Consideration of the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine._

These weren’t even at the point of being amendments, they were- there were a lot of them? And they…?

Soren read from the first page and doubted he hid his surprise:

“‘ _On the matter of personal payment to guild members based on a system of organized labour and disregarding previous models of payment via output’_? You’re giving your people individual wages now?”

“It is a raw proposal, Arl Surana.”

“It’s been six years, Owain, you’re not exactly living hand-to-mouth anymore.” Meaning the guild could afford it. Soren had always understood that the Tranquil had a communal life based around supporting one another. The guild fed, clothed, and cared for its individual members as part of a collective, and either provided for one another’s safety as a group or by relying on their lobbying power to get help from Soren himself or the city guard when issues arose. He continued reading: “ _‘The acquisition of modest individual wealth permits the expression of modest individual preferences in the potential but not limited case of the following: supplementary diet, personal clothing, personal accessories, the patronage of other workshops, guilds, and markets, the acquisition of leisure texts and items…’_ to be further described in point three?”

“It is a raw proposal, Arl Surana.” Owain repeated himself as Soren searched for this third point. It was on the fourth page and took up the entire sheet, but at the top inked in red was the bullet name: _‘On the Availability and Promotion of Leisure Hours Within the Chantry Week and Culmination upon a Day of Rest on One Day Out of Every Seven.’_

“Your members work straight through the week?” He asked. Why wouldn’t they work throughout the week? They were tranquil, it’s not like they had anything better to do with their time except labour in their workshops… except that whoever had written this had already addressed that point and provided a list of possible activities: personal grooming, extended hours of sleep, walking for the purpose of familiarity with the local environment as well as personal fitness, and so on…

There was even a notation stating that providing individual wealth and then allotting time for that wealth to be utilized would benefit the reputation of the Guild _‘as a promotional unit of the city’s economy rather than a drain on the flow of gold that is currently only ever expelled via taxation’_. The writer cautioned the guild against hoarding gold unless they meant to expose themselves to higher taxes from Amaranthine City and Arling, or the possibility of outright theft.

Someone was propositioning the Guildsmen to give their members individual pay, reduced work hours, and a work week that was more in line with what most craft and guildsmen applied to themselves.

The second and third pages were about enshrining care for the infirm and the aging members of the guild- they cautioned against withholding food and medicine from those unable to complete a quota of work?

“Are these your ideas, Guildmaster?” Soren finally looked up from the pages scattered over his lap and the arms of his chair. Owain was still standing, his hands hanging limp at his sides, the Guild Charter open on the desk between them.

“No, your grace.”

“Who wrote this?”

“A guild member of specific affluence.” Soren meant to chase him for a better answer but Owain blinked sharply and reconsidered himself first. “The draft before you was indeed penned by my hand, but only as a means of providing proper and clear presentation of the guild member’s ideas and concerns. The contents of the document did not originate with me.”

“Then with whom? I would like to meet this one.” If only just to marvel at how a _Tranquil_ was supposedly motivated enough to go writing a treatise about their own guild. An _affluent_ Tranquil was unheard of. It was like calling Soren’s chair charismatic. Owain did not give him the name however, he merely stood there with that blank nothing. “Guildmaster, I will not ask again: who wrote this?”

“Jylan Ansera, Second Level Compounder and Tranquil of nine years tenure.” _Fuck_. “I remain in possession of his original letters on this subject.”

“Bring them out,” Soren grumbled, and Owain moved from his desk to another wall bricked in books, withdrawing another ledger in similar style to the book housing the guild charter. When he opened this book Soren noted how each page was slightly wrinkled from glue and wax that had sealed the letters inside the book. “Do you… keep all your correspondence in this manner?” He could not.

“Yes.” He wasn’t _serious._

“You and I exchange letters and notices several times a month, Owain.”

“The top shelf contains my correspondences with you, Arl Surana.” Maker’s _Breath_ , it had to be the most boring catalogue in all of Thedas! “Before my promotion to Formari Quartermaster of Kinloch Hold, I was employed as an Archivist. Under such employment I gained an appreciation for properly preserved texts.”

Soren dropped the subject. He didn’t understand Tranquil and he did not like them enough to go any further down this nug hole. He was presented with Ansera’s letters to and from his guild over the last year, and held back a _groan_.

He should have known; Owain did the same thing to him. Rather than read a letter and pen a reply, the Tranquil were compelled by some unseen force to _re-write_ the entire letter before addressing any of it or continuing the conversation. Supposedly it meant that both writers ended up with a complete copy of the entire discourse, but in reality it wasted an obscene amount of ink, paper, and Soren’s patience when he was forever opening letters from the Guild only to hear his own words being echoed back at him for the first page and a half.

Every letter in the book started with an address _to_ Ansera, Owain’s letter, and then Ansera’s reply. Soren wasn’t going to sit here and read a year’s worth of correspondence; he could already see that too much of it was about reagents, but what kept him actually looking was the _math_.

Equations, variables, fractions, percentages. Soren recognized most of the formulas for weight, time, transport, and division as things the Guild would need its member to be aware of when he requisitioned items for the Vigil, but Ansera apparently did the budgeting not just for Vigil’s Keep, but the guild as well? How much items cost the guild to produce was checked against how much the Vigil agreed to spend on requisitions, and Ansera’s arguments always fell somewhere in the middle. Some of Owain’s replies were corrections to Ansera’s numbers. One of Ansera’s rebuttals was a single line:

“ _Incorrect. The price is 0.3 per unit as-per your reply dated Cloudreach 16 th 9:44 Dragon. No.”_

Finally, Soren came to a series of stiff pages that was just… numbers. And numbers. And more and more numbers covering several sheets of parchment. There were alchemical marks that denoted materials, Soren’s eyes only immediately familiar with the marks for silver, gold, copper, and lyrium, but it was enough. The equations were broken up by a single line each time: Compounder Third Rank. Compounder Second Rank. Compounder First Rank. Chemist. Archivist. Carpenter. Formari Third Rank. Formari Second Rank. Formari First Rank. Guildmaster. There were many, many more…

Ansera had worked out and then proposed the calculations for _how much_ each rank in the guild should be paid… This was… Soren was looking at several _weeks’_ worth of work here. And- yes. He double-checked the wage of Ansera’s own rank as a Second Level Compounder: he’d halved his wages at Vigil’s Keep and used that number as the base for all of his calculations. Owain had replied with the same mind-boggling list of numbers and then additional corrections.

Soren closed the volume. He didn’t like how unsettled this left him feeling. Owain let him have his silence. Finally, Soren had to speak.

“Present the proposals to your guild members.” He didn’t know what else he had to say after that, but he found words just the same. “Present me with a copy of what you decide and we’ll ratify the changes together.” Owain reminded silent until Soren placed the pages back in order and held them up, speaking as he took the document back.

“You do not object to the proposals?”

“I object to the idea of anyone labouring in this city without payment.” He answered, muddling through the strange unease in his gut. “Every other guild manages to give its workers leisure and time off without running into trouble. And I’m a healer, Owain: tell me those provisions for care and protection of the ill aren’t responding to a crisis in your hall.”

“They are not,” Owain told him. And then out came the unnecessary spiel of: “Our intentions are only to enshrine current practices undertaken by members of the guild. Consideration for those who arrived in Amaranthine in a state disagreeable to long hours of focus and work prevented us from following practices previously observed within the Circle tower at the inception of our guild. At no point since the founding has returning to the Circles’ method of measuring permitted rations against labouring output been considered appealing to the guild members, and thus the working practice of adequate nutrition for all members has remained an unofficial aspect of life within the hall. With this proposal, such allowances and insurance of adequate care will be formally recognized.” Soren raised a hand to make sure Owain _stopped_. He understood well enough and had already given the Tranquil his permission or his blessing or whatever it was he needed to proceed with the changes. Soren’s problem now was that he was still bothered by something, and it was hard to try and put it into words.

He didn’t like this growing habit of his thoughts getting muddled before reaching his mouth. He forced the issue out over his tongue: _speak_.

“You respect Ansera, don’t you, Owain?” Owain didn’t bluntly hit him with _‘I don’t understand the question_ ’ so apparently respect was something a Tranquil could still comprehend. “That you’re taking his suggestions and not just brushing them aside, or telling him to stay in his place.”

“The Compounder’s arguments hold merit.” The Guildmaster answered in that detached, airy voice his kind had. “There is much I could say on the matter, but I will settle for the most direct matter: yes, I respect him.”

“Why?”

“Before being forced to submit to the Rite of Tranquility, Compounder Ansera communed frequently with a Spirit of Loyalty from the Fade.” Soren… felt like he should have known this. It resonated with him like something he’d known but then forgotten, or disregarded.

Connor. Connor had told him this. Connor who had forged a friendship with two Spirits in the Fade: his own Kindness and Ansera’s Loyalty.

“I believe that contact affected his present ability to forge and maintain a sense of trust with other people,” Owain continued, coming around to his own answer. “Although tranquility is often synonymous for many people with obedience, when given the choice many of us choose to remain among our own. Ansera instead chose and made strong arguments in favour of his posting to Vigil’s Keep despite my certainty that he was placing himself in harm’s way by going. I did not trust his judgement, but my caution was proven unnecessary. His decisions concerning other people and their habits have rarely proven unwise.” Now wasn’t that just the strangest thing to…

“What harm did you see befalling him, exactly?” Soren was very aware of the storm still dumping water down outside the guildhall, of Our Lady Redeemer’s shadow over the city.

“Abuse at the hands of Warden Guerrin, the former Circle Mage who removed him from the guild.” Soren _reeled_.

“I- _excuse me?_ ” That was- actually rather funny? Owain had thought _Connor_ of all living breathing people would-? That he would _actually..?_ “Owain, that’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Archmage Surana you forget yourself on a subject which does you no credit.” Soren stopped smiling, he no longer found the matter funny. Had he just been _reprimanded_? “Jylan Ansera is an elven tranquil I permitted to leave the guild in the company of a human mage I did not know except that he once lived within Kinloch Hold and currently resides under your command as a Grey Warden and magical protégé. Upon reflection it may come to pass that I was not as thorough about communicating my expectations to you as was intended via our correspondence.”

“Guildmaster-” Owain ignored him? Spoke over him? Soren had _never-_

“It was my understanding that any instances of exploitation or abuse of a Formari Guildsman within your own keep would be met with swift and unmistaken censure from your office.” The Formari was speaking over him, voice toneless and hollow but certainly _loud_ enough to make his interruption both intentional and heard. “If this assumption has been made in error then you will permit me to revoke Compounder Ansera’s posting to Vigil’s Keep and see to his immediate return to Amaranthine City.”

Owain stopped speaking and Soren was too shocked to say anything back. They’d come full circle without the Tranquil realizing it and he didn’t like the sense of cold, empty void that filled the space between them. He should have been angry, it would have been so easy to change the mood by letting anger be his voice and reprimand Owain right back for his behaviour.

The problem was that Owain had already stopped speaking and Soren still wasn’t angry. Anger would be an obvious front at this point. He would not be perceived as hiding something again.

“Your assumption was not made in error, Guildmaster Owain,” Soren told him, speaking smoothly from his seat across from the standing Tranquil. Soren had one elbow down on the arm of his chair, and he wasn’t sitting straight up or rigidly. He had nothing to fear or be cautious of coming from Owain, but that didn’t mean he had to antagonize him either. “I’m going to forgive you for your tone with me just this once because this is a sensitive matter among the Tranquil, and I respect that. Do recall that I am here today to ensure that _your people_ have a charter which protects them.”

He opened a hand to the desk, indicating the very document he’d just named.

“May I inquire as to what prompted this need for verification, your grace?” Here it was.

“Suspected abuse of Compounder Ansera.” Owain’s eyes lifted from him. He was not capable of feeling anger but Soren made a fist with his raised hand anyways, trying to command his attention back down. “Which has already been met with my swift and unmistakeable censure. Owain, focus please.”

“I would know the details of this incident.” Soren mediated his own response to this… strongly worded _request_.

“The storm caused a blow to Compounder Ansera’s health yesterday and he fell ill.” He made certain to omit any mention of the chantry: that was for Garevel to handle. “Before I arrived, he was alone with one of my Wardens who was tending to his fever. It remains to be seen if he was speaking from delirium or in earnest, but he was insisting on his lack of right to resist her.”

“I would know the traits of this Grey Warden.” Of course he would.

“A Dalish warrior, elven like Ansera,” Soren reported. He didn’t have to, but it was enough to bring Owain’s gaze back down to him. Yesterday would have gone very differently if Ansera had been alone in that room with a former Templar, or any other human really. “Ignorant of the Tranquil and until yesterday her interest in him seemed harmless enough. She knows better now, but if she gives me cause to act then hear me, Owain: I shall.”

“This remains an undesireable blow to my confidence in Compounder Ansera’s safety.”

“Can we not proceed with the matter at hand?” Soren tried to push him to the real meat of the matter. “Guildmaster, I want to know in no uncertain terms what the Guild Charter has to say regarding this kind of abuse against its members. How are these things handled? Has it even come up since the guild was founded? Will you go to the city guard, to the Bann, or to myself? I am not always in residence at Vigil’s Keep and cannot ride into the city to bring down judgement every time something happens, but I want you and I to be clear on what steps should be taken.”

“It has come up.” Somehow that was not what he’d expected to hear. “During the period of caution wherein many of the Tranquil were vanishing off the city streets on minor errands, we brought in measures restricting the need to leave the complex. After the rise of the Inquisition, several former Templars made their way to Amaranthine City seeking out their previous… charges.”

Soren’s mind filled in the word Owain disregarded. The Templars had come looking for their _possessions_.

“As I said, I am not always present in Amaranthine.” It was the Lady Inquisitor who had finally told him that it was the Tevinter Venatori behind the abductions of the Tranquil abandoned by the broken Circles. He knew what had become of them as well, and had even held one of the ocularum while visiting Skyhold. The evil thing had made his skin crawl… “How were the Templars handled?”

“One by the city guard who arrested and had him ordered from the city. Another by a patron of the workshop who disagreed with the scene unfolding in the front room and killed her. A third was killed by another guild member, who was promptly handed over to the Bann of Amaranthine on charges of murder. Bann Talbind granted a pardon.” Good, Soren didn’t want that brand of justice on his hands. “Several others were encouraged to depart after the Tranquil they came to collect swallowed deathroot as an acceptable alternative.”

“Maker’s _Breath_ , Owain!” No! That was exactly what Soren wanted to _prevent!_ “Answer me directly this time: does your Charter cover these matters?” It didn’t sound like it did, not if-

“No, your grace.” Andraste’s Mercy, he was supposed to be their _patron!_ Whether or not he liked the Tranquil didn’t matter: he’d said he would protect them, that meant he would _protect them_.

“Then I’m not leaving until it does.” He wouldn’t break his word over something this simple!

“Yes, your grace.”

And Soren did not leave until it was _done_.

 


	10. Persistence

 

“Jylan?”

The pain was concentrated in his chest and head. But he was warm and closely wrapped in heavy blankets. He was not hungry. The room was not cold. He felt no need to use the chamber pot and was strong enough to do so if that changed. The hand that brushed aside his hair was gentle.

“Jylan? Are you awake now?”

It was difficult to breathe deeply. He could feel a rattle in his chest when he inhaled and a sore, swollen pain in his lungs when the air tried to escape again. His eyes were heavy from sleep, his mouth lined with a thin, watery film that tasted cold: snowdrop oil. Expensive. He opened his eyes.

“Good.” He saw Mistress Valora and then felt the weight pull his eyes shut again. He blinked several times, awake but finding it increasingly difficult to present himself as such. The midwife was sitting on his bed. It was her hand that brushed aside his bangs, and then her thin fingers slid down and took his cheek in a firm and unnecessary grasp. She shook his face. “Now what did I tell you, hmm? What did I say would happen? Out in a storm without a cloak or proper boots on: you’re lucky not to have died.”

She released his face before he could speak. She brushed her hand down his cheek again, soothing where she had grasped him. She fussed with the blankets over him and folded them down his chest, then scooped her hands under his shoulders.

“Come, sit up. You need something to wash your mouth out and to eat.” He was strong enough to sit under his own power, bending his arms back and pushing his hands into the bed. When he leaned forward there was a catch in his lungs that made him cough, and the first cough brought a cascade of them that made his chest hurt, his ribs tighten, his face grow hot and mouth fill with thick slime.

She rubbed his back until the coughing passed, standing now and hovering attentively. She took the pillow he had been laying on and urged him to hold it; something to brace on and support himself with.

His mouth was rinsed with a strong wash of mint and vinegar, which he spat out before taking a mouthful of water for the same purpose. She gave him a strong tea of elfroot and lemon that did not pair well with the wash but would ease his fever and his cough.

“Are you nauseous at all?” Valora asked him once he finished the tea.

“No-” and then he coughed again, and coughed many more times before his aching body could breathe again. “I am- in pain.”

“Then I want you eating solid, proper foods again.” She told him simply, “I can’t tell what’s possessed Mistress Stockard to leave these here but she’s adamant you’re to eat the entire stack. I hope you like sweets, boy.” Still leaning over his own legs and embracing the flattened body of his pillow, he was uncertain of her meaning. A plate was handed to him with three tiny boiled and peeled eggs, possibly from a quail, and a flat yellow cake soaked and drizzled with honey.

The syrup would sooth his throat from so much coughing. The eggs would help his inner fire catch and allow him the strength to fight off his fever. When presented with a choice between plain bread or sweetened, he was aware of his preference for the latter. He took the eggs first, two bites each, and ate the cake with his fingers. It was dense and rich and very sweet. He was given more tea to help him swallow.

“Now to deal with this dreadful mess…” The midwife sighed beyond his line of sight, and he was aware of her going over items set atop his chest of drawers. He stopped moving when he felt her touch his head. He did not understand her purpose, but then she lifted his braid and he felt threads of tension prick his scalp, and was aware of a matted heaviness. “Are you well enough to brush out your own hair or should I just do it for you, boy? A-ah!” He felt the hard back of his own comb block his hand from touching his hair. “Nevermind. I can see the honey from here and the last thing you need is syrup in this tangle. You’ve been in bed two days and were soaking wet for the first one.”

He was uncertain of what to say in response to this, so opted for no reply at all.

Mistress Valora took a seat on the bed behind him and he sat up as far as he was able to ease her task. He remained aware of her and focused on the movement tracking across his scalp as she untied the end of the tangled braid and worked the comb’s teeth through the bottom of it. For much of the work he was unable to feel her motion or the change wrought by the comb, but when her hands reached the back of his head and close to his scalp that changed considerably.

He finished eating, but with slower bites. He did not want to cough again with her hands in hi- he coughed many, many times…

“Maker, how do you even get it all in the braid in the first place? It’s all curls!” She led with her fingertips, feeling through his hair and then slipping the teeth of the comb through the locks. “My hair was never this thick, boy, some of it’s even still damp- no wonder it always looks like you’ve no handle on it all. And it doesn’t even have the decency to all curl the same way…” The dull teeth rubbed against his scalp in a pleasing way, bringing a soft and cool sensation that was comfortable in contrast with her warm fingers. His ears were spared any assault from the comb by a simple, gentle touch of her fingertip to the top of one, allowing it to curl down and let the comb take from his temple and trail back through the rest.

“Vessa’s father used to have hair like yours, only straight as a plain of wood. I could have woven a rope from his head when he was a boy.” His shoulders and back were cold from being without the blankets, but inside he was warm from tea and good food. His legs and feet were warm. With no alternative he sucked the honey off his fingers. “A shame you don’t know where your parents were from. Most Fereldan elves have straight hair, thin like Warden Velanna’s and mine. A shame yours isn’t a bit coarser as well, but at least your hood keeps people from touching it, hmm?” Mistress Valora spoke pleasantly and in a gentle voice, her words intended to fill the silence of his illness and her busywork. The comb brushed down the crown of his head and was pleasant. The gesture was repeated several times, each pass as pleasing as the last, and then directed across the other side of his head.

His eyes were very heavy and the comb continued its firm, easy strokes. Her old hands were warm and gentle, fingertips rubbing kindly at his scalp when there was a snag or tangle the comb aggravated. He was unaware of his own lapse until he felt his balance pull and he caught his head in a lull. A moment later he did it again. He was too tired to correct his posture, and it would have been ungrateful of him to move too much while she continued her... he caught himself a third time. She laughed softly and touched his shoulder, giving the comb one final pass before rubbing his back.

“Good. Off to sleep with you, boy, I’ll not have the Arl accuse me of taking poor care of you.”

It was his intention to say something. To assure her that he was adequately cared for. To thank her for combing his hair. To pass his thanks to Delilah Stockard for the honey cake. This was his intention.

Instead, he took another mouthful of warm tea and the cup was supported by Valora’s hand instead of his own. He fell onto his side, still holding his pillow to his chest, and he was covered in blankets again without the ability to speak or open his eyes. His sore head was stroked by her hand, his thick lungs pulled in shallow breaths. But he was warm and he was fed and he was soothed and he slept. He slept very, very deeply…

“But _why?_ ”

It seemed likely that time passed before he heard voices near to him again.

“I don’t know; it was so sudden I didn’t have a chance to ask what was happening.”

“Have you spoken to her?” Mistress Valora’s hushed voice.

“She was still in tears about it this afternoon.” Warden Velanna’s whispers. “The Commander hasn’t returned yet from Amaranthine either.”

“This late in the day he isn’t likely to make it back at all. Tomorrow then, if you think it wise to approach him.”

“I was hoping to speak to Jylan first, but if he’s still so ill…”

“He is certainly better for resting and the magic you and the Arl have spun over him, but I would ask you not to burden him with this matter just yet.” They thought him asleep but this was no longer the case. However, he was very fatigued still, and Mistress Valora expressed concern over his constitution. It would be disagreeable to cause her further distress over his condition. He remained quiet and still, eyes closed. “Have faith, Velanna: the Warden Commander is strict but fair. If it means protecting Jylan from something then Warden Athras will have to accept this new arrangement. Come to see him again in the morning, I was about to return to my own home when you arrived.”

The door opened and the women left after that. Jylan was alone in his room again. He opened his eyes. He was tired. His head hurt. His lungs hurt. His shoulders and back and sides all felt heavy. He sat up. He coughed, and then coughed several more painful times.

There was no pair of socks resting ready on the floor by his bed. His shoes were missing as well. He covered his mouth with the crook of his elbow and coughed many, many times into his sleeve, dizzy and aching when it was done. He stood. He was uncomfortable and cold.

The brazier was filled with glowing warm coals, enough to keep the room very warm: this meant his fever had not broken if he remained so cold.

His keys and ring and Amara’s amulet were on the chest of drawers next to the comb Valora had used on his hair. The amulet was undamaged from his experience in the rain. The white quartz formari ring had not been lost. The keys were accounted for.

He placed the items into their box which had been left closed but empty atop the chest. His blue and white robes were not in the room, presumably because they had been sent to the laundry. He owned a spare set of blue and white but selected a hanging robe of black wool, changing his shirt and trousers before putting the robe on. He found his shoes next to the brazier: they were no longer damp but had grown stiff from the heat. With a fresh pair of socks he pulled the shoes on as well.

The tea had grown lukewarm in the hours set out. He swallowed the rest of it, and tended to himself, leaving his hair unbound. He was uncomfortable and aware of how necessary his return to bed would be. He coughed many, many times into his sleeve before finding the crumpled ball of a warden handkerchief he did not recall owning, using that instead to cover his face when the coughing seized him.

He took his keys and left the room. The hall was so cold he promptly returned to the room and found his gloves and a scarf of warm, well-knit brown wool. He left a second time, dizzy, chest aching, and navigated the torch-lit corridors to find the workshop. He unlocked the door but the workshop was not as he had left it.

A mess had been left of the table of free supplies. It would take a few minutes to put in order again, but not right now. The cauldron of water had boiled mostly away leaving only a trace of water at the very bottom, so presumably no one had tended the blaze or damaged the great iron pot. Several bundles of common herbs had been opened and left out on the counters, but they were primarily embrium, parsley, and elfroot. The floor had not been swept, the ink well next to the ledger was still open. He capped the bottle and turned the ledger around to read it, a difficult task with so little light.

There were twelve new requisitions on top of the five he had been unable to address the day he fell ill, and the four outstanding orders that had been part-way completed. There was a backlog now of twenty-one requisitions for him to work through, but he was too dizzy and fatigued to stand here now and begin with them. If he persisted tonight then he would delay his recovery and injure himself.

He left the ledger open, locked the workshop door, and returned to his room. He removed his belt and shoes and robe and placed his keys back in the box with Amara’s amulet and his ring. He left his shoes under his bed and did not remove his socks. He crawled into bed and waited to stop hurting.

He awoke again before dawn and he tried again. He was not certain of his ability to rise if he lowered himself to the floor for exercise, and thus did not perform the twenty-one push-ups or thirty sit-ups. He was too cold and sore to change his clothes again. He put on his shoes, his white robe, his blue robe, his ring, Amara’s amulet, his belt and his keys. He was required to sit again in order to comb his hair, but his fingers were clumsy and his arms were weak: he could not control his hair well enough to braid it. He stopped.

His head ached. He felt chilled and sore. He coughed many, many times before leaving the room. He wore his scarf and his gloves indoors because he was cold.

He went to the workshop and his hands struggled to light a fire of kindling and small lengths of dry wood. It took him far longer than normal to complete the simple task. The weight of the empty cauldron caused him to drop it with a great bang on the stone floor. He persisted, but his arms and back hurt. He pumped the water but paused and leaned on the handle, his face and head swimming with nausea.

He persisted. The full cauldron was far too heavy for him to lift. He poured the water out until he could heft it from the sink. He carried it to the hearth where he staggered and spilled what water remained over the small fire, soaking and crushing it with the cauldron. The ash made him cough once, and then he knelt there and coughed many, many times.

He persisted. He lifted the cauldron to its hook. He took a rag and wiped away the ash and debris from its wet belly. He dug through the ashes to disperse the water and bury it, fetching more wood and kindling. He knelt on sore legs and struck a second fire. He used a smaller pot and made several trips to pour water into the cauldron. It took him far longer than was acceptable before the cauldron was full. He was very dizzy and very hungry when he left the workshop to break his fast.

“Master Ansera?” He took the hot bread. Just the bread. He did not break it open for butter or a spoonful of jam. He took the hot bread and held it in his hands. He was very cold and the bread was pleasant between his palms. “You should sit down today, perhaps? I’ll pour you some tea.” He did not know the servant who spoke to him. He had not intended to linger in the servant’s mess hall. He remained only because he was dizzy and momentarily confused as to the location of the door that would take him back to the familiar paths of the lower keep.

“You still have the look of a man with a bad fever, elf.” Someone else he did not know spoke to him when he sat down at the very end of one of the benches along the tables where the servants… “Ansera? Have your breakfast and go back to bed.”

His sore teeth ate the chewy bread. The hot tea was black and fragrant but he drank it straight and fast. The heat was good for him. The burn in his throat was unpleasant but would fade. He left the empty cup on the table and returned to the workshop.

He had nothing to deliver as he had done no work for two days. He organized the stacks of prepared items, uncertain as to his own labels and their accuracy, as the bars of lard and the bars of soap were the same weight and dimension. He was dizzy. He was cold. The morning bell echoed strongly enough to make him stagger and lean on the worktable.

He cleaned yesterday’s mess. He consulted the ledger and turned away to begin… he consulted the ledger again. Dye. He fetched the… he consulted the ledger again. Green amaranth dye. No. Amaranth did not create green. Amaranth made a variety of colours in shades of red and purple, not green. This was incorrect. The Seamstress’ instructions were incorrect. He looked to the next requisition: soap. A pound of white soap for the laundry.

The ceramic jug of lye was heavy and it would be incredibly unwise for him to drop or allow it to break. The lard was similarly heavy. He brought both reagents to the table before turning to the boiling water in the cauldron, ladling some out into a cup, and placing a fresh elfroot leaf in his mouth to chew on. When the water was no longer at risk of scalding him outright, he drank it. His arms and legs felt weak. He was aware that he was unlikely to perform many more tasks today.

“You stubborn fool of an elf!” A sharp, scolding voice shouted from the doorway. He looked and saw Mistress Valora’s pinched face, flushed cheeks, and the angry twist and bustle of her arms bundled up under her black shawl. “I _just_ told Warden Arthas that you were safely abed and now look at you! Douse that fire at once! Coughing all over your work and tempting death to come for you! Back to bed this _instant!”_

“I-”

“To _bed!”_

The volume and force of her voice was unnecessary to direct him back to his room. Valora did not even allow for him to remove his belt, keys, or ring before he was placed back in bed with his shoes carelessly tossed to the floor. She covered him, robe and all, in blankets and scolded him for several more minutes until she was calm enough to permit him to rise again and remove his scarf, gloves, keys, and robe. He returned to bed again and did not argue or resist her at any point. Her intentions, although difficult to prioritize against the necessary operation of the workshop, were to see his health fully recovered before he resumed work.

“ _You_ are not working for your Guild, or your Circle, or anything else today.” She sat on his bed, took his hands very firmly, and leaned on him with her words. “The Seneschal has ordered you to _rest_ , and you will be fully yourself again before going back to work. Your fever has not broken, Jylan! You must stay in bed and keep warm until that happens, and then you must rest a bit longer to make sure you are strong enough not to fall ill again! If you feel better then read a book, or do some of your sewing, but leave the labour until you are strong enough for it.”

There was Rowan’s book of magical theory in the bottom drawer of the cabinet. He requested it between sore coughs, and Valora found it easily before handing it to him. Then she departed to brew another pot of tea for him.

He fell asleep only a page into the current chapter.

And woke up when warmth surged down and consumed him from throat to groin, wrapping around his knees and slipping between his toes. Heat poured through his hands and up his arms, sinking into his sore back and tense shoulders. His neck was soothed, his chest eased and able to open up properly. But his head- that was why he woke up. The warmth became sharp and scrawling, it cut and burrowed, digging, biting, sinking harsh and painful into his forehead. It burned, and _burned_ and over the blankets his fingers curled and twisted, tension down his thigh made his knee bend and his back twist.

It stopped. The pain left, the magic faded, he was awake.

“So that… helped him?” Unfamiliar voice, male.

The splutter and hiss of more magic weaving together, threads of will and focus that circled his throat and then touched down. They followed the coursing motions of arms and hands and doused through his chest, his lungs, his gut, his back…

“It’s cleansing magic,” another low voice, a male speaker, but this one was known: the Warden Commander. “Spellwork cannot stop a fever, but it can control the cause of it. The inflammation of the lungs makes it challenging for him to breathe, thus the cough, and it causes a reaction in his body akin to panic: fever, fatigue, weakness, and delirium.” The motions concentrated and came to rest. He could barely see but for the coils of blue light wafting from the air down past him. He was aware of hands hovering above him, holding the spell steady. He did not move.

The Spirit Healer’s hands pushed the light down into his chest and it did not feel good. It was not pleasant. It was not agreeable. It was tens of tiny fingers squirming through his insides, picking at his lungs, wresting with his ribs, plucking at his skin from the inside. It needed to stop. The light was pushed in and down and it was not good not even when the light was so far down he could see the Warden Commander’s face clearly now. His eyes were watching Jylan’s face and aware of him and it was not good and it needed to stop. Stop.

He meant to speak but took a sudden breath instead. It was deep. It was unintended. It forced his head down and mouth open for the long draw of air and it came out in a collapsing gasp. The magic stopped and he coughed. He coughed many, many times.

“Good.” Surana’s hands lifted away from him and slipped behind his own back. Jylan was not certain if the Archmage had physically touched him or not- his lungs ached from the coughing. “He’s doing much better, Mistress Valora. Thank you for accepting this responsibility on top of your usual obligations to the Vigil, it is much appreciated.”

“It… is the least I could do, your Grace.” Jylan closed his eyes and focused on breathing. He would not draw attention to himself with excessive cough- he coughed, and- it hurt... “He is certainly stronger today than yesterday, yours and Warden Velanna’s magic has helped considerably.”

“Do not discount your own efforts in these matters,” the Commander cautioned her. “But I have taken up enough of your time. As he is both awake and doing well, there is someone here to speak with Compounder Ansera semi-privately.”

“I noticed- who _is_ this?” Valora’s question.

“ _Semi-_ privately?” The unknown voice. He opened his eyes again. Surana was looking at the hidden speaker.

“I just completed a round trip to and from Amaranthine to ensure this Tranquil’s safety here at the Vigil. So yes, semi-privately or not at all. Make your choice swiftly.”

“I… alright, yes. Your way is fine, your Grace.”

“Excellent. Mistress Valora?” The Commander looked to her and extended his arm. She was not visible to him until she accepted the gesture. Jylan only saw her cast a brief look back at him before she was gone. The door remained open. He was alone with a new person.

Jylan moved onto his side, pushing against the bed with his arms to rise, and moved with care to lean his back against the headboard. His head was heavy, but his raw chest did not hurt as much as it had that morning. He looked at the stranger and did not know him.

He was elven with black hair and dark skin. His eyes were creased underneath, a silver hoop hanging from one long ear. He had delicate scars across his lips and cheeks, and his clothing was too thin for Ferelden: hardened leather girdle decorated with tassels and knots, simple cotton and linen down his arms and legs, shoes instead of boots. He stood with the disposition of one who worked outside. It was reasonable to assume that he had come to Ferelden via a ship from warmer northern waters. That would make him a sailor.

The sailor’s face expressed discomfort. Jylan was uncertain of his own role in relieving that stress.

“The Arl implied that you have business with me?” His voice did not come cleanly from his throat, he had coughed too much and worn it raw. “Do you carry a message, perhaps?”

“After a sort, I guess.” Fereldan accent, a traveller then who had journeyed north and now returned. They were far in-land for a sailor. “You don’t recognize me at all, huh?”

“No.” He did not know this elf’s face. “I am aware of only one sailor who would have reason to approach me.” Too many words. He felt short of breath. “But you are too old to be him.” The sailor seemed interested by his comment, his face was very expressive: even the tips of his ears rose somewhat at the comment. Jylan repeated himself with: “Are you a messenger?”

“Less a message, more news and catching up. What sailor do I remind you of? You know his name?” Yes, Jylan knew his name.

“Damen.” An elven boy born after Jylan: his only younger brother. The name sparked something that saddened the other elf immensely.

“Aye,” he said in a heavy voice, eyes creased and face tight with old pain. “Damen’s ship went down seven years ago off the coast of Antiva: raiders took ever life, every coin, and scuttled the vessel before bragging about it up and down the Amaranthine coast.” This was not good news.

Five years had separated Jylan from Damen. His memory did not reach back that far. He knew the name. He remembered soft limbs and a round tummy: difficult to drag and carry. He had known the name.

“That is-” he coughed. He raised his arm to cover it and then coughed many, many painful times into his sleeve. His eyes leaked tears and his skin felt hot, but when he could breathe again he spoke: “-unfortunate news. Such a tale would do well finding his family in the Gwaren Alienage.”

“Maker’s Breath, wall rat, is that all you’ve got to say about it?” The address gave him pause. He looked at the elf again: this sailor knew Damen, or had known of him. This sailor had known which ship his brother had been on, and remembered his fate seven years after the fact. This sailor called him a strange name, but one that echoed.

Rat was a common insult against elves. _Rattus_ was the Tevene slur used towards them. A wall rat implied climbing and scouring up something, scurrying about in places as a pest.

“You are from the Gwaren Alienage.” A place of many crumbling walls and piles of old masonry. A place where children had climbed and dashed and tripped and fallen- and dragged their younger siblings about only to be dragged in turn by their elder ones. He remembered, vaguely, the sensation of grit digging under his nails and between his bare toes.

“You’re damned right I am,” the sailor from Gwaren told him. “And so were you once, a long time ago I’ll grant you but _come on!_ If you didn’t know about Damen’s ship then why aren’t you upset about it?” Oh. The stranger expected the news to evoke an emotional reaction in him, and perceived Jylan’s response as inappropriate.

“My skill with conversation is not widely regarded as competent.” His head was beginning to hurt again, his chest heavy. He adjusted how he was sitting on the bed in order to recline a bit further back, hands in his lap, face still turned towards the other elf. “I am not certain that you have found the correct person for your query, but I have also neglected to give my name and station within Vigil’s Keep.” Too many words. “I am Compounder Jylan Ansera of the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine, acting Apothecary of Vigil’s Keep.”

“No you’re not.” The sailor became offended, he scowled, he made fists. His statement was divorced from reason.

“Yes, I am.” So Jylan corrected him. “I have been contracted to the Vigil from my guild for the previous calendar year. My duties and responsibilities have been clearly outlined.”

“I don’t give a damn about your job, I meant your name! That’s not your name!”

“If you seek to intimidate me by raising your voice, then I must inform you that it will not work.” The situation was escalating. Jylan should have inquired into the Warden Commander’s meaning and expectations behind the phrase _semi-private_. “As I am unable to experience shock or loss over the death of my brother Damen, so I am unable to experience anxiety or fear over your temper and strange insistence over my name, stranger.”

“What the fuck _happened_ to you!?”

The yelling made his headache flare. He closed is eyes briefly for the pain to abate, and made a decision.

“My present goal and intention is to regain my health so that I may resume my necessary work within the Vigil.” He stated, and then went on to explain: “That I return to work promptly after several days abed is crucial to my continued employment and the dispensation of salary which is then forwarded to my surviving siblings in Gwaren.” And then he finished with: “Stranger, I do not know you, I do not recognize you although it is clear that you hold some unspoken memory of me from Gwaren. It is unfortunate that this meeting has inspired such a negative emotional response from you but it appears beyond my tranquil capacity to calm you. If your only intention from this point on is to shout at me, then I must request you leave so that I may rest and resume my duties as soon as possible.”

Jylan heard the drop and click of armour, looked past the sailor standing in his room, and witnessed the Warden Commander’s quiet return to the doorway. The Archmage was dressed for riding and fighting, although he carried no staff. His gold robe was cut around the breastplate and faulds of his armour, and he rested one gauntlet-clad wrist over the pommel of his sword. The sailor looked at him as well, but the hurt was growing across his face and Jylan observed its effects. His temper was not dangerous: it was a response to emotional pain.

“Control yourself, or I remove you.” Arl Surana leaned on the doorway and kicked one foot to the side, a relaxed pose not easy to attack from. “As I thought I explained to you on the road from Amaranthine city: he is a Tranquil. He’s not going to make assumptions no matter how many breadcrumbs you throw at him, so be explicit or stop wasting your time.” There had been an expectation that Jylan would piece together parts of what was said and form his own conclusion. This had not been clearly conveyed.

The distressed man nodded to the Commander and then looked at Jylan again, pausing before he took hold of the chair Mistress Valora had sat in numerous times since he had fallen ill. The chair was placed close to the bed again and the elf sat in it, dropping his elbows to his knees and rubbing his face with both hands. He was not calmer, but he was more in control of himself as he took a deep breath and tried again.

“You name is not _Ansera_ it’s _Ashera_ ,” the elf explained in a heavy, winded voice. “And it’s _always_ been our family name. It’s never changed, every last one of us has been an Ashera since our parents set foot in Ferelden. I’m not going to let you change it now, so get it right: your name is _Ashera_. And you know me. Don’t lie to us both and say you don’t because _you do_. Even if you’ve forgotten my name, even if you’ve forgotten _your own_ , you know me. Now tell me what you know.”

This sailor was too old to be Jylan’s next eldest brother. He was too young to be another relative. He stated either that their parents were the same people or had arrived in Ferelden at a similar time.

“There has been a mistake.” Jylan reasoned through what he knew of his family and arrived at this conclusion: “I was informed last spring that my eldest brother Samar had died young. You are too old to be Rian. You are too old to be Damen whom you also inform me has been dead for many years. If Damen and Samar are dead than I have only one brother living in Gwaren along with three sisters.” The sailor was upset, his green eyes were rimmed with red and his voice became husky when he shook his head and looked down at his hands hanging between his knees.

“Aye, there has been a mistake.” His voice did not carry strongly. “I never died, and I never said I did either- don’t know where you got that from, really. Damen died young, not me.”

“Samar.” He remembered the name. He remembered climbing broken alienage walls. He could not remember why. His brother nodded to him and his eyes began to weep. His voice was broken when he spoke.

“We survived the Blight, all of us but our father.” He uttered the words in a thick and choking voice. “Name us.”

“Samar, the eldest.” Jylan stated, drawing from memories left untouched for many years. He had created a mnemonic for himself during his time in the Circle, as an Apprentice. It was difficult to remember. It was there, but it was buried. “Ariyah, sister. Younger than you but older than Rian who was born before me. Then a sister, Dana- Dinah.” He corrected himself. “Saya, then Damen, and then the baby.” Warden Velanna had told him his youngest sibling was a sister. It had to be the baby. “It was a sister.”

“Jenna,” Samar closed his weeping eyes with slow, tired nods. “The baby was named Jenna after the Templars took you away.”

The Warden Commander withdrew from the room again. Jylan reasoned that he would not go far.

“The Wardens who returned from Gwaren informed me that our mother died a few years ago.”

“After Damen died, yes.” Samar explained it to him. His eldest brother, Samar, who was sitting next to him and weeping. He reached out for and took Jylan’s wrist in one warm hand, his other one covering his eyes as he sat there and told his story. “She couldn’t… Father died right at the end of the Blight and the Templars dragged you away when his blood was still warm on the rubble. She was never herself again, and the news from the fleet when Damen died- she just _couldn’t._ She stopped eating, wouldn’t leave the house. Rian sent Jenna off as a servant just to spare her from having to watch as mother just… _stopped_. I was on a ship bound for Val Royeaux when we knew it was almost over. By the time I came back she was gone.”

He was not certain what verbal response he was meant to give to this announcement. What few answers he considered were deemed inappropriate. He was aware of the extended silence but made the mistake of keeping his focus directed on his brother. When Samar looked at him it was with the tight, old pain of grief, but quickly folded itself into a look of subtle, and then open, confusion.

“Does… does this not mean anything to you?”

“I am aware of the value of what you have told me.”

“But- that’s it? _Value?”_ He would soon become angry again, and his anger would signal to the Warden Commander that Samar was to be removed from either the room or the Vigil. As his brother was a sailor his presence in the Vigil must have been intentionally driven to see Jylan, to be forced out after such a long trip would be unsatisfactory.

“How did you come to know of me again?” So he asked a question intending to change his brother’s focus and perhaps receive more information.

“Rian knew where my ship was headed,” Samar’s answer was given through clenched teeth, hurt and anger bleeding through his green eyes. “He sent a message ahead to me, but it was short. Just your name and to look in Amaranthine for you, that you were tranquil now. Is _that_ what this is? This- _this nothing?_ ”

“Yes.” It was good that he made that connection on his own, however it was likely to require further explanation. “I was made tranquil in Nine Thirty-Six Dragon when I became ensnared in the internal politics of the Fereldan Circle of Magi. The brand upon my forehead severed my connection to the Fade, the realm of dreams. Without that connection I lost the ability to dream, to experience my emotions, and the use of my magic.” He watched Samar’s eyes search the air between them for answers to questions which sprung up in his mind. When he spoke it was with a soft echo of horror.

“Wha… Why would they do that to you? I thought it was for blood mages?” Because Samar was his brother who would likely carry the reason back to their siblings, and because he likely had no prior experiences with the Circles of Magi beyond Jylan himself, it was appropriate that he know the truth. Samar was unlikely to become as invested as Connor, who had once also asked him this question.

“I was no blood mage. I offended the First Enchanter’s Apprentice.” He answered the matter with a statement of truth instead of a matter of fact. What the Circle’s official reasoning had been did not factor into this moment as fully as the actual reason behind the decision. It had not been until weeks after the Rite itself that Jylan had understood the matter completely. These elaborations were not required at present. “Her rebuttal crossed several lines of propriety within the Circle, and I was made tranquil as an example to her. However, as she later died during her Harrowing it has remained unclear to me what precise lesson my punishment was intended to teach her.”

“But then…” The horror did not abate from Samar’s eyes. It occurred to him now, at a regrettably late period of the discussion, that Samar’s perceived emotional investment in Jylan _himself_ would result in a negative emotional reaction. Knowing Amara the way Connor had was not, apparently, a requirement for distress. Samar’s tears were now spilling with alarming regularity. “If you weren’t a mage any longer then why didn’t they send you home? The war didn’t start until thirty-eight!”

“I was transferred from being a ward of the Chantry to a possession of it, as all tranquil mages were treated prior to the dissolution of the Circles.”

“ _Possession?_ ” Yes. “And _after_ that?”

“I was gravely wounded during the Annulment of the Fereldan Circle. Upon completing a partial recovery, I fled to Amaranthine with the Formari Quartermaster to petition the Hero of Ferelden for sanctuary. The request was granted, and I have remained in the Arling since that time.” Barring his accompaniment of the Grey Wardens to Redcliffe last winter, but Jylan witnessed no current reason to assume providing additional information at this point would sooth his brother at all. On the contrary, his answers were only instigating more distress. “I have alarmed and upset you, Samar. This was not my intention.”

“Why didn’t you come _home?_ ” His brother was weeping openly now, his hands swiping at his face to remove the tears. “Why stay in Amaranthine when you could have come back to _Gwaren?_ ”

“I had not experienced contact with our family in many years. I did not even know if they remained in the city. There were also other contributing reasons.”

“Like what?” Jylan did not answer him. They were primarily reasons concerning the safety of a tranquil mage travelling alone, of an elf travelling alone, of securing employment beyond the reach of his guild or his special contract with the Grey Wardens. Most certainly, there was the reason of simply not experiencing the motivation necessary to uproot himself and travel across the entire country to a city where he had known no one and had held no reasonable expectation of safety or value. “Like _what_ I said! Answer me, why didn’t you come _home!?_ ” He closed his eyes again and lifted his hand.

“I requested that you not shout at me.”

Samar stood, it was a poor choice on his part.

“I’ll shout and scream at you if that’s what it takes to get a damn answer from you! Why didn’t you _come home!?_ ”

“ _Master_ Ashera,” Commander Surana’s voice swung through the room like a heavy mallet, blowing down Samar’s temper again. “That is quite enough for today. If you’re to be aboard your ship tomorrow morning when it plans to leave Amaranthine, then you’ll no doubt wish to rest and feed yourself here before the ride back to the city. The compounder also needs his rest, and my midwife does not appreciate your… overbearing manner towards her patient.”

Surana entered the room as smoothly now as he had before, stepping around Samar and redirecting his hurt away from Jylan. The Commander inserted himself between the bed and the sailor. He looked down briefly with a dismissive nod and the blunt command for Jylan to lay down. As he had no available alternatives, Jylan readjusted across the bed and laid down.

Samar was controlling himself, but his wet eyes were still leaking distress, and he watched Jylan move before shaking his head at the Arl.

“I still want an answer from him,” his brother spoke in a harsh, thick voice. Surana was watching him openly and also rubbing his palms together in a deliberate fashion. “Why didn’t he reach out? He said he’s sending money but what about letters? What about _anything_ to let us know he was still alive before now?”

“The answer is that he is a _Tranquil_ , Master Ashera.” Red light collected between his palms, and the hiss of magic began to sting the air. Samar saw the spell forming and quickly took two long steps back from the Archmage between them. “My Seneschal can explain the financial end of things to you later today, but on the emotional front: your brother is a failed mage. He no longer truly has the capacity to-”

Surana cast his spell to the side, almost behind him, and it flared out and grasped Jylan very suddenly.

The Archmage continued to speak. The brand began to sear and crackle between his eyes. It hurt. It cut. It blistered. His fingers knotted with the sheets, he tried to breathe and felt the magic force itself into his mouth, between his teeth, down like a thick glove into his throat. His nostrils were struck full and his ears rung before deafness swallowed him, his eyes blinded, his…

“ _The only reason your family knows he is here is because my Wardens took it upon themselves to tell them. Your family’s business is your own, Master Ashera, but my business is upholding my vows to the Tranquil under my protection. Waste as much of your time as you like with him, I’ll not stop you, but you will **never** threaten him in that tone of voice again. I hope that today has been an enlig…”_

The spell strangled him and all that was left was sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very... slow... story as you may have gauged at this point. But I got part 16 done today so Happy (Canadian) Turkey Day!


	11. A Healer's Chargin

 

The elder master Ashera was sent off with a servant to Garevel’s office, and it was Soren’s intention to return to his chambers and refresh himself after his day and night in Amaranthine. He hadn’t meant to be gone over-night, but working with Tranquil almost always took longer than expected. At least it was done now.

“Warden Commander?” And now on to something new: a hold on his attention for the Vigil’s midwife. “Please pardon my intrusion on your time, your grace…”

“It’s no intrusion coming from you, Mistress Valora.” It needed to be understood that while Soren had very little cause to speak to the elderly elven woman beyond medical emergencies within the Keep, he still respected both her and her craft. A castle was only as fit as its families, and without a skilled midwife there would have been far fewer of them about the fortress.

Healthy families meant happy, dedicated soldiers; good, diligent tradesmen; and plenty of running and playing children. Soren had seen enough ruins, war-camps, and outposts to know he was quite alright having unexpected messes and misbegotten pranks underfoot if it meant hearing laughter in the hallways or rhyming melodies in the gardens around the Vigil. It reminded him fondly of the transitions and free hours enjoyed by Apprentices back at the Circle. You could eat and sleep anywhere, but you were only at home when there were children.

“Is there some matter you would like my assistance with?” With her role both so necessary and productive, Soren was pleased by how easy he found it to respect Valora. Direct, hard-spoken, and downright belligerent against fools, her wonderful skill with her craft made her easily as dependable as Garevel. If she desired his time or attention with something, then it was hers.

“It’s about Ansera, your grace.” Oh. Well, he would not renege on a pledge he had just mentally made to himself. He nodded to give her permission to continue, and the midwife wrung her hands together as she spoke. “Or, I suppose his name is _Ashera_ now- but enough. What I wanted to ask you was this, your grace: that spell you use to put our patients to sleep, is it painful?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” he told her and felt curious about his own reaction to the question. This almost hurt. “You’ve seen me use it many times in the past and never raised any concerns.” Soren had cast it over the ill, the injured, the suffering or dying. Magic did not result in the same deep slumber as embrium or snowdrops, but it was faster and required only skill and focus, not costly or unavailable reagents.

“Do you now believe otherwise?” he prompted her when it didn’t seem she knew what to say.

“I believe, your grace, that I’ve never seen a person struggle against it.” A sensible and direct answer, he liked it even if the topic- “Not greatly, mind you, but watching Jylan twist his hands like that and go tense- I don’t know why he would struggle unless he was in pain. But your grace is always repeating for everyone how _‘he’s tranquil, he’s a Tranquil_ ’, so what if it’s that? Does touching magic hurt the Tranquil?”

Soren was ready to answer but then stopped. He repeated the question to himself in a serious manner and realized he didn’t know. He had honestly never thought about it, or had any reason to ponder the matter either. His interested had never been focused on failed mages.

So Soren did right by her and told the truth:

“I don’t think so, but I don’t know either.” He was the authority on Magic at Vigil’s Keep and without Connor or Sephri in residence there wasn’t another Circle Mage for miles to correct him. “Either you may ask him when he wakes up this afternoon, or I shall. His guildmaster would not approve of even well-intentioned harm befalling him and I pride myself on taking proper care of my charges. Thank you for bringing this to me.” Even if she was wrong: Soren didn’t know and he was going to find out. No one would ever accuse him of using his powers carelessly or in ignorance of their effects.

But first, he was going to rest. He bade good day to the midwife and she briskly excused herself from his presence. They were both busy people and they had plenty of better things to do than stand around in a corridor together talking of Tranquil.

Soren felt remarkably better for his jaunt to Amaranthine. It had been a long and late night, a cold and rugged attempt to sleep in a dockyard inn, and a wet, rainswept ride home in the morning. He was tired but _refreshed_ , and the only thing missing from it all was a good reason to flex his magic.

Things were only looking brighter again when he returned to his chambers and found what could only be either a piece offering or an apology sitting on the salon table. Six small, bright orange clementines.

These did not grow in Ferelden. And even if they did, they wouldn’t ripen at this time of year unless you were far, far north of both Antiva and Rivain. _Someone_ had been through the Eluvian and brought him back a gift.

His helmet and gauntlets, removed down when he had entered the Vigil’s front doors, had been brought to this chamber already and laid on the same table as the fruit. This meant Soren’s hands were unburdened as he removed his sword belt and shield, and as soon as the weapons were off him he could scoop up the first delicacy. It was supple and heavy in his hand, and the rind peeled off in one large piece that would be dried and saved for teas or soaps. 

“Did the Arishok catch you in his orchard?” Soren asked the room, noting the burning fire, the leaning heartwood staff by the couch, and his wife’s foot sticking out over the arm of the same sofa. He pulled off a segment of the fragrant fruit and relished the flood of nectar over his tongue when he chewed it.

 _“Mng…_ ” Oh, she was actually asleep? Well his taunt woke her up, and he held half the fruit in his mouth so he could unlace the strong hide vambraces around his wrists. He could remove the rest of the armour in his room in a moment, but it was nice to have full movement in his wrists and hands back as he left the guards on the table.

“Itching feet after only two nights home?” He asked her, coming around behind the sofa to peer down at her.

“ _You_ did not return last night as promised…” she grumbled in a low, miserable voice. Her eyes were barely open, and she didn’t look like she’d cleaned up since coming home? Leather tights and several twisted black and wine-red scarves knotted around her waist in a mess of skirts. A feathery black pauldron up her shoulder, her amulets of protection and warding resting on her chest. “Boredom swiftly followed. Mind you, I poisoned half those treats I see you’re already gorging yourself on. Take care not to die.”

“I always do.” He peeled a second segment off and popped it in his mouth, leaning over the sofa and waiting for her to sit up. But she didn’t. “Morrigan?” He mumbled around the fruit. He reached down a hand for her to take, but she didn’t. “Did you go alone, Morrigan?”

“No.” Flat, tired voice. She hadn’t really opened her eyes properly to look at him yet. If he leaned any further over the damned furniture his feet would lose the floor and Soren wouldn’t stand for kicking his legs in the air like a child trying to reach her. He pulled away, circled back to the table to leave the half-eaten clementine next to its sisters, and swung his left arm out enough to reach the clasp and buckle holding his griffon pauldron to his shoulder. He pulled and shimmied it down, taking the cuff at his elbow at the same time. He dropped the two pieces on a chair and returned to her.

“Where’s Zevran?” He asked her and took a knee next to the sofa. Her answer came in the same tired mumble:

“His room, I think?”

“You _think?_ ” He slipped his palms together and spread them, painting an image between his hands that stretched and incorporated itself into its own elaborate design as it twisted. “Morrigan, look at me.”

“If I should admit that the room is spinning far too much for that, will you be very annoying about it?”

“Yes.”

“Then I shall not look at you because I do not care to. The spinning has nothing to do with it.” He was going to be very annoying now:

“I am not the only healer in this castle,” he scolded, settling the web of starlit magic across her eyes and guiding it down. “Velanna could have done this for you.” A dousing spell, just to tell him what in the Maker’s name was wrong. His mind was able to move and understand what the magic touched, like sticking a hand in a black box and feeling a broken sword, a cracked shield, or split cauldron. Soren found the healed but tender welt across the back of her head, the thundering echo of a heavy strike across her skull, and the uneasy distress deeper inside. That last part worried him.

“You were supposed to be home,” she pouted.

“You are supposed to know better,” he scolded, letting his mind reach out, an echo sounding through his magic: a quiet call that earned him minor attention from across the veil. “Keep your eyes closed,” was his only instruction.

He was a healer, he was her partner, she was in pain and it was his duty to help and safeguard her from these injuries. He felt Duty answer him with affirmation, and the spirit’s presence was like the tension on a loom: it did not do the work of putting together Soren’s glyphs and lines, Duty didn’t supply any of the raw power for the work either, the spirit simply helped him. It gave him a frame to rely on, and it helped the magic come together with more precision and speed than if Soren had muddled through it alone.

The spell he wove on Duty’s loom was small in size and delicate in purpose. A field medic and front-line healer would always treat what was choking, bleeding, or immediately killing the people around them. A Spirit Healer knew to work from _inside_ and move out. The spell formed a glowing mark on his palm. He spread his fingers and brushed them carefully down from the crown of her head, her brow, and across her closed eyes. The warmth moved from the eyes and soaked _in_ , provided _internal_ relief first, and while Morrigan did take a quick breath and hold it, she remained still and slowly began to relax once the immediate presence was established. It was only a concussion. But a concussion was the brain slamming against the inside of the skull, and considering how delicate that mess of tissue and odd structures was: having _only_ a concussion was not far off from having _only_ a severed finger.

Soren could not fix what he did not consciously recognize as wrong. Given the quiet hysteria around mind-control during his studies both within and beyond the Circles, examining the brain was not something he had been given many, if any, non-emergency chances to explore. It was invasive, uncomfortable, and he didn’t like it. This was not a part of Morrigan he wanted to see. As soon as he’d let the spell ease restoring and soothing energy into her head for a few seconds he moved on to the fine fractures in her skull, repairing those with far less hesitation, and finally rubbed out the tender pains of mis-aligned flesh under her hair.

“There,” he told her, withdrawing his touch and rubbing his palms again, watching as she let go of a slow, relieved sigh and brought a hand up to her head. She scratched and rubbed across her own scalp in relief, humming satisfied things to him under her breath.

“Much better… What-?” He touched her chest. Not her breasts, her chest.

“You brought this on yourself.” The dousing magic moved down, moved through, and his hands settled at her waist, then walked to her hips.

“T’was only my head, Soren.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“ _Child_.” His magic didn’t go all the way down, it didn’t have to. He dispelled the glyph, folded his arms, and sat there on his haunches next to her couch.

“Okay, go ahead: roll your ankle.” She did, and he snorted at her. “Not that one, the other one.” The ankle sitting high and up on the arm of the sofa.

“Tis fine,” she insisted.

“ _Tis_ not,” he mocked.

“Then fix it.”

“Is it broken? Is it sprained? Is the good lady merely retaining an excess of humours?” Soren rambled off, and did not move from his crouch. “As perplexing a mystery as you’ve ever encountered, my dear.” Morrigan grumbled loudly and then dropped her head back, staring at the ceiling petulantly.

“Yes, it hurts. Yes, it is swollen. Yes, you are a great strain upon my nerves.” Soren stood with his victory and trailed his fingertips from her knee to ankle, no magic this time: just the chance to bother her. He cradled her calf with one hand and braced her foot against him, undoing the laces down the boot and sparing none of them. He could already tell it was swollen, the boot itself was too warm and tight for anything else. He was gentle about it but didn’t coo and fuss over her, aware of her wince when he finally got it off.

Warm magic this time, good for the weather, the swelling, and the pain. No dousing magic, they both knew a minor sprain when they saw one: she’d probably rolled it in the excitement through the mirror.

“I was telling myself how the only thing missing from today was the chance to use productive magic, but this isn’t what I had in mind.” He rubbed the light into her ankle and up her leg a little. He was not going to stand here and give her a foot rub, but for the moment he was holding this foot and he was rubbing it.

“Mm, you should see Zevran then, if it’s a challenge you want.” Morrigan was purring on her back when Soren stopped what he was doing.

“Is he injured?”

“Do you ever know him to be this quiet when he _isn’t?_ ”

Soren dropped her stupid foot, walked away from her stupid couch, pushed through the stupid apartment doors, and went looking for his stupid brother. From the salon there were only three ways to go: into Soren’s office, back out into the hall, or further inside to a short hallway hosting many more doors. One of these held the workshop with Morrigan’s eluvian, another was their bedroom, another was Kieran’s locked up room, the fourth was a private bathing chamber, and the last one was Zevran’s.

As the door was already ajar, Soren just tapped a knuckle on it before walking right in and-

_“You found meee…!”_

“Are you _drunk?_ ” Soren asked, scandalized, and stood there for a moment just to gape.

Zevran was in bed at least, and there was a small table dragged to the bedside that Soren quickly went over: bloodied thread and scissors, a half-used poultice of elfroot, and two empty glass vials of some sort of potion. Zevran’s flask was also on the table but if it was laying like that then it was empty. The idiot had a bottle of wine held by the neck and a crooked, slurring smile on his dreamy face.

“ _Just_ something to numb the pain, you _know?_ ” Zevran’s long blond hair was completely unbound, but unwashed and ratty-looking. His sunkissed cheeks were kissed from the wine and he had his arms up over the pillowy mounds of blankets and furs on his bed. He’d folded one of his ears over completely to look at Soren from the bed, and if he didn’t stop that he’d have a mark on his cheek for it.

“No I do not know.” How injured was he? Soren approached but couldn’t see what was wrong yet. “ _Give me that._ ”

“It’s empty anyways!” Zevran’s sing-song voice worried him but he decided to just look angry instead, taking the empty wine bottle away and setting it on the crowded little table. “How was Amaranthine?”

“I was gone for _one night_ and you two go off and try to get yourselves killed.” It wasn’t his hands, arms, or shoulders because he was moving those just fine. Soren lit the room’s candles with a thought, raising his hand to the hearth and drawing it back from embers into bright yellow flames. He needed the light, and with it he could ignore Zevran’s complaints and take note of how easily his eyes could find and follow Soren across the room. It wasn’t his head. He was drunk but plainly lucid.

“Boo, you’re taking this so personally,” Zevran pouted at him, complete with his lip stuck all the way out as Soren came back to the bed. “We brought you oranges?”

“Is it _so_ inconceivable that I care more about your safety than I do about citrus!” He let anger lick at his words and swept his hands together, drawing cool strands of dousing magic down through his palms and out from his fingertips. The glyph spun and twisted rapidly into form, and Soren brushed his palm up and back across Zevran’s forehead, parting his hair gently before his other fingers traced from brow over eyes, over cheeks, past chin and throat and to chest. Nothing he touched was injured- no more than a few bruises and one shallow cut across his forearm. Good. “What _happened?”_

“Everything was fine until it stopped,” Zevran mumbled, his eyes closed with the sensation of magic passing through his body, lips slurring the words.

“Stopped what?”

“Going fine.”

‘ _I’m going to hit him_ ,’ Soren held fiercely to that thought.

_Such an act would run contrary to your purpose and desires, my friend._

Not now, Duty. _Not now_.

“ _Brother…_ Brother- Soren.” Zevran reached up and touched the hand resting over his hair, the dousing magic still hanging through him. His eyes opened with a bit more lucidity this time, coming through the drink. “It’s my leg. I broke my leg. I’m alright.” He felt the worry rise hot and stinging up his throat, acid splashing at the back of his mouth.

“Broken bones can cause blood sickness and _you started drinking?_ ” He hissed in a tight voice, ignoring Zevran’s hushes and dismissals and _‘We knew you’d be home eventually’s_. None of that was the point! “Just- _lay still_.” And let him work.

“…It was an emergency.” Zevran spoke up with Soren’s hands recasting their spell from his chest and moving down through darkness- “Morrigan’s friends in Tevinter needed assistance, a surprise, and unfortunately there was one particularly astute fellow with a great big hammer that-” -there was not supposed to be darkness there.

“Zevran,” Soren interrupted him, pulling the blankets and furs back down to his friend’s knees. Soren then leaned over the bed and pushed his hands under Zevran’s hips, cradling them, and looked at him. “Does this hurt?” He kept the magic flowing.

“Eeh… maybe?” He sounded genuinely unsure. That was not good. “I took a bad hit to the gut, but it’s my leg that hurts most, Soren. The rest will go away.”

“This is why you drink _after_ the healer visits you, _not before_.” Soren scolded again because it was easier to scold than to explain the heavy darkness pooling deep in Zevran’s gut, the wealth of mislaid blood that belonged elsewhere and would inspire far more pain than a broken leg and some bruises would account for. “All of your pain, one to ten. Tell me?”

“Pah, for a former Crow? A soft three.” He rambled off. Soren adjusted the measurement.

“If I had Carver Hawke on this bed instead?” Zevran closed one eye in a lazy blink to think about it.

“Oh… an easy eight and a half.” He was _impossible_ when drunk. “I, uh, trust you? And your magic. What do _you_ think is wrong?”

“Your life choices,” Soren rambled off, taking his hands off his friend and turning away from the bed. He couldn’t do this in heavy armour and fought with the straps buckling his breastplate to his body. He pulled off the sleeves of his gold robe and let the whole thing fold down over his belts and faulds, getting the breastplate off with a hard thump. The silverite mail wouldn’t come off without removing everything around it first, but the gorget around his neck unclasped and came off.

“I am not so incompetent as to leave him in dire straights,” Morrigan’s voice wafted into the room from the doorway and Soren just continued to doff his armour. He didn’t want the weight and clumsy mess of it right now. “Soren, tis a broken leg.”

“How long ago did you two come home?” He asked them both by looking at neither of them. For fuck’s sake, he grew annoyed to hide his fear and pulled the buckles off. The belts, the faulds, the weight of his robe. He dropped it in a heap and pulled the chain mail off over his head. Black shirt and trousers were enough, the greaves over his boots he was too stubborn to deal with and he rolled up the sleeves to his elbows before turning around again.

“A few hours?” Zevran mumbled.

“Before dawn,” Morrigan added, but with a low scowl. “He was well.”

“Morrigan I am not blaming either of you.” He told them shortly, pulling up Zevran’s shirt and rolling his palms together with several tugs and twists of cold liquid power webbing through his fingers. Duty pressed close to the veil and Soren set the loom in place so he could work. “Velanna should have been summoned but it doesn’t matter because now I’m here and I can fix it.” An injury like this at dawn would not have been blatant. It was… there it was.

Something in him had ruptured- not completely, not disastrously, but it had been torn just the same. Through the pain in his leg and the alcohol and his own tolerance Zevran hadn’t noticed it yet, but he would soon, and-

“ _Oh-_ ” Now Zevran noticed it, his hands quickly grabbing the blankets not in a response to pain, but to the invasive sensation of _magic_. “Oh I don’t like that- Maker, am I _pregnant?_ ” Morrigan was free to laugh at his comment, Soren kept his focus steady.

“No,” he answered, “you’re _bleeding_.” He slid one hand under his friend’s body again, keeping his other hand flat against his stomach and pressing firmly down. It was easier to position everything if- there. His hands were aligned, the damage was between them, and it was less strain than trying to place a large glyph over the sheets but under his body and spin a second one. Much easier to just…

Drain the blood, guide the fluids, twist parts and pieces and layers back into the arrangement they needed to be in. To meld flesh back into whole components of a mosaic constructed by the Maker to work just so and with a certain harmony. Warmth to ease pain, pressure to stop movement, and Zevran’s patient self-control until Soren was satisfied. He let his powers withdraw, took his hands from his friend’s body, and straightened up. He pulled down Zevran’s shirt and then replaced the blankets over him, tucking them up under his arms so he was covered, warm, and well.

Morrigan had approached the bed with ill-concealed concern on her tired face and was stroking her fingertips very gently down through Zevran’s hair. The assassin himself was very quiet. Soren moved from the silent danger in his gut to the more obvious damage done to his bruised and swollen leg. It was broken below the knee, the bruising suggested a heavy blow had done the damage, and Soren was quite angry over the fact that he hadn’t been there to ensure whoever had done the hitting had paid for it.

The fracture was not clean. It took several minutes of careful focus and many threads of stable blue light twisting and weaving between his fingers to gather each shard and fragment of bone and slip it back into place. The muscles needed to be massaged and soothed, returning to their proper form, the skin needed attention to ease the bruising and manage the discolouration of his flesh. But this was not life-threatening work. A broken leg would not kill Soren’s brother today.

With Duty and Soren’s worries satisfied, he dispelled his magic and finished his work, turning aside just so he could sit on the bed next to Zevran and close his eyes for a moment, shoulders bowed from the sustained effort. He felt a warm hand cup around his wrist and move up his arm, and saw Zevran’s sorry-looking face frowning up at him.

“It was not my intention to worry you, Soren. I’m sorry.” He shook his head, it wasn’t that simple.

“I’m not worried about you two getting hurt,” He answered in a tired voice. “It’s when you both decide to just wait around when there are other healers available that’s upsetting. Please take more care next time.”

“I will,” Zevran pledged. “She won’t, but I will.” Another smug laugh met that comment. Soren rubbed his face all over with both hands, and then surprised himself a little bit by yawning into the tent of his hands. He had slept no better in Amaranthine than he had at any point since taking the embrium, but now there were practically tears in his eyes from fatigue.

So he made the decision to twist around, swing his feet up onto the bed, and laid down with his arms folded over his chest and his eyes closed, head resting on one of Zevran’s pillows with his friend’s arm cast behind his shoulders. Zevran’s gasp was expected, welcome, and very dramatic.

“Such scandal! Could it be, have the wiles of a notoriously attractive scoundrel sundered true love’s embrace? To my sinful bed, does the Hero of Ferelden fall?” Morrigan laughed softly, Soren settled for a smirk with his eyes closed, arms still crossed.

“Lo, have you not heard the news?” He quoted with a deep rumble in his chest. “Lady Morrigan has left me for the Arishok of Qunandar. She secrets into his orchards at night and he gifts her with the sweetest fruits of the grove. What mere elf can compete with that?”

“A perfect pair, the two of you make.” Morrigan mocked them as she walked around the bed, and Soren opened his eyes again so he could see her before she bent down and placed a sweet kiss over his lips. The hand she stroked through his hair was pleasant too. She tasted like clementines… “You,” she placed a hand on Zevran’s chest. “-will rest. And you,” that hand moved to Soren’s face. “-will mind your charge. I am going to outdo both of you by enjoying a wonderfully hot bath. Sleep well, for I shall not play nurse and wake either of you should you sleep through supper.”

“Okay, but make him take his boots off first,” Zevran whined to her in a childish voice. “I don’t want boots in my bed.”

“I’m not in your bed, I’m on top of it.” Soren countered, hooking one ankle over the other and wiggling his toes a little inside said boots.

“He saved my life, and now I have to push him on the floor,” Zevran groaned, seeking sympathy from Morrigan who was already walking away, her fingertips dousing candles as she went.

“I wish you luck in that endeavour, my friend, but he is most persistent when tired. Enjoy your nap together.”

“Noo, don’t go…!” Zevran cried, but Morrigan slipped from the room without another look back. “He’s going to cuddle me!” Hey-

“I do _not_ -”

“You lay in _my_ _bed_ and you lie to _my face,_ brother, I am _wounded_.”

“Move over and give me space.”

“Have you no respect for the _dying?”_ That melodramatic voice despaired in the warm gloom. Soren just hummed back at him, and with a bracing touch to make sure Zevran didn’t hurt himself, the other man twisted onto his side and his arm was freed from under Soren’s shoulders. He could very well have gone to his own room and his own bed with his actual lover to try and sleep, but he was already here, and he was already feeling warm, and he already…

Soren sat up, earned himself a complaint from Zevran about how he was only kidding, pulled off his own boots and then laid down again.

“M’lord, I’m touched.”

“Mmh.” Zevran’s hair stank of sulfur and smoke, his breath was heavy with wine. There was the unpleasant tang of blood and poultice on his skin. The bed was soft and warm and Soren was tired when he rolled onto his side and closer to his friend. He ignored Zevran’s attempts to pull the blankets out from under him so he could be covered up as well.

He slept, or tried to sleep.

It was enough for now.

* * *

The storm berating the Amaranthine coast came into its own at evening bell, when the face of the hurricane swallowed the city of Amaranthine and turned her roads to rivers. The flooding in the city was confined to the harbour district, and those who needed shelter found it in the open arms of Our Lady Redeemer Cathedral, overseen by Grand Cleric Brona of Amaranthine who tended the frightened and frigid from under Andraste’s holy gaze. It was deemed, come dawn, that no lives were lost to the storm, and word was sent forth to Vigil’s Keep to alert the Arl.

Waves had overwhelmed the storm walls and the docks were washed with white water that lifted them from their rocky beds. For the ships tethered to those docks, it had been a rough and terrible night.

The Marcher Coast of Starkhaven snapped her lines and drifted from the docks before a great swell slammed her into the stone wharf by the Harbour master’s tower, sundering her bow and leaving her beached with her nose stuck through the shattered wall of a warehouse. The Fat Freighter from Rivain pitched so hard when her dock crumbled that she took water through the starboard side and listed over, half-sunk and beaten by the waves. Not to be outdone, the Lady Freeborn of Wycome, contracted ship of the Eighth Lion Merchant Fleet, slammed her belly against the harbour breakers too many times and swallowed a hundred tonnes of sea water into her freight-heavy hold. This was not, however, as bad as what happened to the Grinning Galleon, who broke free of the docks, drifted through the storm swells, and became swamped and sank in the very middle of the harbour with only her masts sticking from the dawn waters like petrified trees.

For Samar Ashera, ten-year veteran and known Boatswain to the Eighth Lion Merchant Fleet, this was unexpected. He could inspect the rigging and the sails all he liked from the dock, but with a great big hole in the ship’s belly clear even from the shore, not to mention the obvious liquid cargo under her gangway, there wasn’t much else to do except look to his captain and shrug.

“I’ll sign whatever needs to be signed, Ashera, but our Lady isn’t going anywhere for a good six weeks or more. Find another vessel to carry you home for the winter, it won’t be ours.”

“Oh, and what other ship is going to take an _elf_ as Boatswain?” Samar laughed at the bad news because there was nothing else worth doing. He’d busted his arse getting back to Amaranthine city before dawn after the whirlwind and riot of Vigil’s Keep, only to show up soaking wet and now without a ship to sail out on. “I’ll make better money labouring in the city from now until the Freeborn’s up again. I’m not going back to swabbing and we were the Lion’s last ship for Amaranthine this season where they’d take me as a rigger.” The company was good like that: if you had the seals and documents from the right captain, you could keep your job when changing ships. Still, for an elf it wasn’t wise to go switching crew unless you absolutely had to. Captain Ranem was good to him, or at least not fucking awful or likely to dock his ears for stupid mistakes Samar had long outgrown making anyways. Even if the Captain didn’t like him per-sey, he was honourable and his Quartermaster- _she_ liked him. This was a good ship for him.

And, apparently, his loyalty was good for the Captain, because he seemed surprised.

“You’ll wait for us?” The human asked him with some sense of surprise.

“Maferath’s Shame, Captain, I’ve seen you take off two Raiders’ heads with one swing, and never needed count my coin after payment.” Not quite true but shhh, this was business. “As soon as you’ve a ship, you’ve got your boatswain.”

“Will I find you around the docks?”

“No, I’ve a brother who serves at Vigil’s Keep.” If brother was really the word for it after what Samar had seen yesterday. “I’ll see what’s available to me there and send word to you, check back every few days to see how the Lady’s doing. Otherwise, don’t mind me, I’ll find my way back when it’s time.”

“Good on you, elf.” And then the Captain, in _great_ show Samar had not expected, offered a hand out to him. “Mind yourself, I won’t be pleased to hunt down another boatswain at the eleventh hour if you don’t come back. Calm Waters carry you.”

“And swift winds bring you home, Captain.” Which concluded their business together.

Samar loitered on the docks for much of that morning, eventually finding a smaller vessel whose crew were laughing and drinking their good fortune at having only snapped rigging and some debris on the deck to worry about, not their brow crammed up the harbour master’s arse like the Fat Freighter. They were bound for Gwaren but with a stop along the way in Denerim first. Didn’t matter, they’d still get there before Samar did. He wrote on crude paper with dull ink and sealed it up with a rub of wax, handing over an entire silver to see it delivered to the Alienage in Gwaren. The Hahren would get it to either Rian or Ariyah, and they would know Samar wasn’t _dead_.

Wasn’t until he’d already walked away that he remembered he hadn’t said a damned thing about their brother, but shook it off. He didn’t know what he would have said anyways. Maybe next time he’d have something worth muddling out on paper.

Horseless now as the Arl of Amaranthine’s coin had only taken him to and from the Vigil once, Samar Ashera walked the winding, rainy road back to Vigil’s Keep.

 


	12. Questioning The Chemist

 

Jylan’s fever broke that evening. By morning after the hurricane blew itself out he awoke at his usual time with much of his energy and strength restored. He completed fourteen push-ups and ten sit-ups, collected his clothing, and then took himself to bathe before breaking fast. This was not his usual routine as on bathing days he would typically wait until the evening and remove the sweat and smells of the day, but as he had been ill for the previous four days it was proper that he tend to his body first.

Bathing, dressing, and drying his hair took up the entirety of the morning before first bell, but this was an acceptable use of time as he had no deliveries to make in the meantime. He collected his breakfast of bread, jam, butter, and apple. He collected Dirthamen from the kennel. He was strong enough to lift the cauldron and fill it properly with water, to strike the fire without assistance or strain.

The oil was collected and added to a pot with reagents necessary to make glue. The glue was then left to set while dye was extracted from amaranthe seed pods. When the glue was sufficiently cooled it was bottled, sealed, and labelled for delivery. The dye was extracted, concentrated, bottled, and labelled. The lard was rendered into oil and mixed with sufficient properties of lye and scent. It was stirred over heat, then poured into a prepared block mold, and left to cool and set for the next three days as soap.

Three requisitions of twenty-one.

“Ah, it appears your health has been restored.” He was grinding ox bone when the woman’s voice came to him from the door. The bone was properly dried and heavy, it ground down into a chalky powder when raked against the hard surface of the mortar. He did not yet have the proper quantity of powder and thus did not pause his labour. “When you have a moment, Compounder, I would speak with you.”

He did not have a moment until he had completed his current task. The ox bone was rendered down to a quarter-cup of powder and scooped, measured, weighed, and deposited into the bowl for mixing. The remaining bones were then returned to the wooden box they were stored in. The box was returned to its shelf among the cupboards. He washed his hands. Now he had a moment.

“Lady Morrigan.” There was a chair next to the door that she had taken while waiting for him to complete his task. She rose from that chair now and strode towards him, holding a parcel of waxed paper which he accepted with both hands.

“For your professional use,” she explained as Jylan’s hands opened the bundle to reveal a number of torn orange rinds. Clementines. “Make of them what you will, you know your stores and the Vigil’s needs better than I.” They were fresh and gave off an incredibly pleasant aroma, their orange skins nearly red in places. He did not understand how she had come to acquire the rinds in this state, but they were fragrant and of excellent quality. He pinched one of them and felt the fruit’s oils wet his fingers, lifting his hand and taking a breath of fresh scent.

“These are best used to distill a fine quality oil for aromatics and soaps, although a portion may be dried and shredded for use in medicinal teas.” He reported to her. “Thank you for bringing them to me.”

“Tis no trouble,” she answered with a calm nod. Lady Morrigan’s gown was sewn with many kinds of dark fabric, many of them soft and silken by sight, and she held herself with poise. “But I had more in mind than a mere delivery this morning. I have a few questions for you, Compounder.”

Although he did not consider it part of his duties to converse with other denizens of the Vigil, he was not ignorant of Lady Morrigan’s standing within the Keep. She was the Warden Commander’s Mistress and in many ways commanded the respect and ability of any Arlessa. He was permitted to speak to relevant persons during the work day.

“I will answer to my fullest ability, Lady Morrigan.”

“Good.” The sorceress closed the workshop door and then approached the table standing between them, resting one hand on her hip with a rope of emeralds circling her wrist. “I am given to understand, Compounder, that you bear certain scars across your back from your time in the Circle of Magi. Is this true?”

“This is a question of personal nature, but yes, Lady Morrigan, I do.”

“Thin white lines?” She pressed. “Do you possess them on any other parts of your body?”

“The undersides of my forearms, as well as my calves and backside.” He did not understand her asking but did not withhold his answers. The scars did not pain him, not even in the coldest parts of the year. They were old scars and the wounds had been very shallow. Tender and stinging, but shallow.

“Certainly then such places would only be struck as a means of humiliation,” Lady Morrigan reasoned allowed, touching a finger to her darkly rouged lips. “Were they acquired before or after you were made tranquil?”

“Before, Lady Morrigan.” There was little to gain by beating a tranquil mage.

“I had not known it was in the Templar mindset to brandish a cane as a tool of keeping the mages penned up in their tower.” She was mistaken.

“It was not, Lady Morrigan.” He corrected her, and then proceeded to explain the matter: “Martial punishments by Templars were often given in the form of isolation, exposure, and severe rationing. Day to day corrections and punitive matters were addressed either quietly by Circle Enchanters, or openly by the Chantry.”

“I have never heard of a quiet beating, Compounder.”

“An Enchanter could be expected to strike misbehaving Apprentices across the hands during a lesson,” he explained. “But this was not a common recourse, not even in my own personal experiences of rampant misbehaviour. Mages were more likely to demand more assignments, displays of magic, or chores than resort to corporal punishment.” His comment intrigued her and this was shown by her half-smile and the way her dark brows lifted across her face.

“ _‘Rampant_ ’ misbehaviour, Compounder? I am shocked.”

“I was often considered a spirited apprentice, Lady Morrigan. The Rite of Tranquility stripped me of such compulsions.” Her intrigue dimmed. As an apostate Lady Morrigan had never lived within the confines of a Circle and therefore it was uncertain she had much experience with the Tranquil.

“We shall let the matter rest. I gather from what you’ve said then that the scars you bear were inflicted upon you by the Chantry priests who served the Circle? But these abuses stopped once you were made tranquil.”

“Yes, Lady Morrigan.” Both points were correct.

“What was your tenure at Kinloch Hold?”

“I was brought to the Circle of Magi shortly after the end of the Fifth Blight, early in Nine-Thirty-One, Dragon. I was an Apprentice from Thirty-One until Thirty-Six, when at the age of sixteen I was subjected to the Rite of Tranquility. I served as one of the Tranquil until the dissolution of the Circles in Nine-Thirty-Eight, Dragon.”

“You were young.” He did not respond to her comment. The words were presented in such a way that it did not seem she had intended to speak them. Her voice was soft. The phrase quiet. There was no sound except the water boiling in the cauldron behind him. “List for me, if you remember them, the reasons why an Apprentice would be subjected to such thorough punishments by the priests.”

He gathered his thoughts momentarily, and then spoke.

“In incomplete order and without reference to severity.” He began: “Theft of food from the dining hall, sharing food between Apprentices, eating too much at meal times, eating too little at meal times, tardiness at prayer, loitering in the Chantry, reading the Chant of Light without permission, singing the Chant of Light without permission, singing the Chant of Light inappropriately or poorly, misquoting the Chant of Light, questioning interpretations of the Chant of Light, disagreeing with Chantry Initiates, disagreeing with Templar Squires, quarrels amongst other apprentices, back talk in any form against any other member of the Circle Hierarchy, disruptive noise in the tower hall, disruptive noise in the Apprentice Quarters, disruptive noise at night, disruptions during prayer, excessive conversation during chores, poorly executed chores, dirty robes, unmended robes, unbrushed hair, dirty fingernails-”

“-enough.” Lady Morrigan raised a hand and he was silent. He would not interrupt the Lady of Vigil’s Keep. She seemed disturbed by his incomplete list of infractions. “These are all, from your fingernails to your appetite, reasons which a child within the Circle could be _beaten_ with such severity that it left scars across your body, Compounder?”

“Depending on the frequency of the infraction, the temperament of the Apprentice, and the temperament of the Chantry official administering the punishment, then yes, Lady Morrigan.”

“I will leave you to your work, Compounder. Put this conversation from your mind.” He nodded to her and she left without further conversation. He resumed his duties.

Shortly before the midday bell Mistress Valora visited him. She disapproved once more of his insistence on returning to work, but he reported to her his remaining symptoms of fatigue and lingering cough and she was content to let him remain within the workshop. He was provided with elfroot tea and a portion of thick duck stew which he warmed by the fire for his lunch. She left before the bell tolled.

As he ate the stew during his hour of rest, Warden Velanna came to him. She checked his fever, spun a web of warm magic through his chest, forgoing any request for such attention, and then with a stinging touch of her forehead to his brand she departed. He continued to eat. An’eth did not visit him today. He returned Dirthamen to the kennels as he would not be venturing from the keep today. He returned the workshop and resumed his duties at the conclusion of the hour.

Two block molds of soaps were curing. A batch of red ink was concentrating. The glue had been bottled, the dye had been bottled, the wax had not yet rendered from the comb, the face cream was setting, the tooth powder was cooling, the paint was awaiting its pigment which was still fermenting, the witch hazel rub was prepared and labelled.

Jylan found a balled up, used handkerchief in his own pocket and was given pause by it. He did not own this. He had dirtied it, but it was not his. It was monogrammed with An’eth’s name; it bore a Grey Warden Griffon. It was not his. He would return it. Not in its present state.

He heated water in one of his smallest pots, added a quarter tea spoon of laundry soap from the batch, and let the water begin to steam. He rinsed the handkerchief in cold water first, smacking it against the side of the counter and wringing it out tightly. He put the linen sheet in the hot water and soap and stirred it for ten minutes continuously with a wooden rod. He removed the sheet, rinsed it, wrung it, and let it hang to dry.

He swept the workshop floor, wiped down the counters, prepared the completed requisitions for delivery tomorrow morning, and-

“I, uh, guess you’re feeling better?” He completed his present task of rinsing and setting aside his tools to dry overnight, then washed his hands, then dried them, and then turned to face the speaker at the door. It was the sailor; it was Samar. His brother.

“Yes, I am recovered enough to resume my duties.” His brother was very wet and dripping, this was a poor state for him to be in as Jylan himself had just recently recovered from his own bought of cold illness. “I have not yet doused the fire, and I may provide you with a hot drink to ease your present condition. I did not expect to see you return to Vigil’s Keep.”

“Well, you’re family. I can’t just walk away from you in good conscience.” His brother explained himself with a crooked smile and then entered the workshop properly, losing his smile in his eagerness to approach the flames and crouch down by the rippling red embers. “I’ll take you up on that hot drink though. Maker, it’s freezing out there still.”

“You are not appropriately dressed for the cold.”

“ _Brilliant_ insight, that.” Samar answered as Jylan fetched a cup and the jar of dried herbs blended with red berries. The aromatic mixture had few healing properties, but brewed quickly and easily in the pair of cups. “It gets warm under the sun on the high seas, alright? Not that I’ll be seeing them again for a while.” Jylan fetched the honey as well. “Pulling out all the stops, eh?”

He was uncertain how to respond, so did not. He placed a coil of honey in one of the cups, and left the jar available for Samar to use for himself. His brother indulged with a tired smile, and the jar was then returned to its place.

“That’s a good blend…” Samar sighed after a mouthful of hot tea, shivering a little under his wet hide cape and cradling the cup with both hands. He slouched over his stool at the work table. “Nice and soft, I like it.”

“Mint, raspberry, and white chamomile,” Jylan explained the blend. “All grown within Vigil’s Keep. Have you eaten today?”

“Bite of bread and ale by the docks this morning, a shred of fish from a vendor before walking back to the Keep.” Then he would be hungry, it was a long walk from Amaranthine City to Vigil’s Keep.

“Remain here, I will return.” He left the workshop door unlocked and returned to his room. He did not understand Mistress Stockard’s intentions in leaving half a dozen honey cakes in his room, but he had only eaten two of them while ill. Picking up the remaining four in their linen wrap, he brought them back to the workshop. Samar’s surprise was obvious from how his eyes lit up and the tips of his ears dropped just so at the sight.

“Don’t mind if I _do_.” He took one as soon as they were offered and bit into it. The crumbly golden cakes were becoming stale after so many days, but they remained sweet and dense and paired well with the tea. Samar ate two of them and took another deep breath and drank from his cup, finishing his tea. Then he spoke in an unexpected manner:

“I’ll come clean now,” he said, and Jylan paused his own eating to listen closely. “The hurricane knocked holes in the ship I sailed in on. I’m out of work for the next two months until they get her raised and repaired in Amaranthine. Any idea where I might find work around Vigil’s Keep?”

“Such inquiries should be directed to the Seneschal,” Jylan answered. “However, it is not clear to me why you would seek work within the Vigil and not Amaranthine City, as I understood you to be a sailor by trade.”

“Aye, and a good one too, but I like my ship and I like my captain and I like my pay with the fleet. I’m here until the ship is repaired, and until then Jeevan, I’m here to see _you_.”

“My name is-”

“Jeevan.” Jylan. “ _Jeevan Ashera_ , quit making me tell you twice.”

“My name was recorded as Jylan Ansera by the Circle Administration.”

“Well then the Circle Administration spelled their words as well as I do because our mother named you Jeevan and that’s your fucking name.” A rebuttal was required.

“It is possible that you have mistaken me for someone else.” Samar thumped his hand on the table but did not yell. He raised his voice, but did not yell.

“Oh! Another elf of your description with siblings the same as mine, from the same place, and the same age?” The odds rendered that possibility highly unlikely. “Did you ever meet a Jeevan in the Fereldan Circle of Magi?”

“I did not.”

“Then it’s you, _Jeevan_ , so get used to it.” He was very satisfied with that pronouncement and broke off a portion of Jylan’s unfinished cake, popping it in his mouth. The act was familiar, but the memory had faded.

“All records and associated documents related to my position and abilities are written to address me as-”

“As a mockery of the name your _dead mother_ gave you. _Respect it_ , and take it back. Your name is Jeevan.”

“No.” There was a memory. It was old. It was dark and smelled like something. It felt like raised marks over his shoulders. It ached of a sore throat and stuffed sinuses. It was old.

“Your name is-”

“No.” It echoed. Samar’s statement and assertion of fact. Jylan’s refusal, adamant but not convincing. Somewhere dark and with pain and the waiting crack of a cane. But there had been a smell, a scent. If he could smell it again then he would remember. The memory on its own was too faint and could not sustain itself, even with his focus dedicated to unearthing it. Samar continued to speak to him but Jylan did not register his words or his meaning.

He rose from the table, approached the cupboards, ignored the voice behind him. He moved jars and glass bottles, found a small ceramic pot and pulled the lid off: dried cloves. No. He replaced it. Cardamom. No. Witch hazel. No. Cinnamon. No. Frankincense.

Frankincense.

Chantry incense burning in censers upon the alter before the statue of Andraste. The dark ceiling of the unlit chantry hall within Kinloch Hold. Revered Mother Senna’s voice and the cane in her hand and his forehead pressed to a copy of the Chant of Light on the floor, wrists hurting from holding his weight, knees bruising on the cold stone floor.

 _‘Your name is Jylan_ ,’ and then a blistering pain on his bare skin. _‘Andraste has brought you here and given you your name. You will respect the saviour of your people and your kind, your name is Jylan of the Circle of Magi. You are a mage. You will recognize Andraste’s guidance over your life. Your name is-’_

He had protested. The tears had made his sinuses swell and clog. The crying had hurt his lungs. The cane had bruised and then cut his skin. The method had been repeated until he stopped transgressing against the Chantry.

He had created a mnemonic to remember his siblings’ names in secret. He had not known enough letters to write it. He had chanted it to sleep in the Apprentice Quarters laying quietly above Connor Guerrin’s bed. He had changed his name to Jylan to remove the chance of punishment.

He remembered.

“-not listening to me at all now, are you?”

Jylan- Jeevan? Jylan. The name he had worn for over half his life. Jylan replaced the top on the jar of frankincense and placed it on the counter. He looked at Samar and saw the frustrated look on his brother’s face, but the sailor was also quiet and clearly waiting for his attention to return.

“What was all that about?” He asked his question and gestured to the pots now resting out on the counter.

“I apologize, Samar. I was mistaken,” he stated. “The name our mother gave me was altered and taken from me within the Circle of Magi. Although I do not know the due process to begin changing it back, nor am I capable of judging if such effort would be well spent, I will no longer protest your use of that name.”

“What- just like that? You all of the sudden remember now?”

“It is not a memory I have revisited in many years. It was not one I knew I still possessed until just now.” When the banter between them and the scent of the resin prompted it. “The process of losing my name was not pleasant. It was no doubt for my own benefit that I repressed the memory of it.”

“Are you really going to be that cold about it?”

“I am not being cold, I am being truthful.” He stated. “It was unpleasant, perhaps even traumatic. I was only a child.” He had been no more than nine or ten years old.

“What did they do to you?” His brother asked, and the cold tremor of horror from yesterday returned to his voice. Jylan considered the possibility of not telling him at all, but decided against it. If he withheld the information, Samar may be prompted to yell at him again. He would prefer not to be shouted at.

“I was beaten until I stopped using that name.”

Samar immediately stood. His horror and concern were clearly woven across his face. He approached Jylan quickly and he was not given time to brace or move away: he was taken very tightly into his brother’s arms and to his wet shoulders and warm skin. He smelled like wet leather and cold air and- and his skin… smelled like…

An old wooden table, too tall to see over. Rushes on the floor that smelled sweet and bitter together in the rain. Thin linen sheets and a ratty quilt and a thick wool blanket and an old wolf’s pelt and a few scraps of velvet and half a dozen other layers of many beds all pushed together to share warmth. The smell of many people and sound of many voices and soft limbs with a round tummy too tender for him to pick up or carry.

“They were supposed to _protect_ you…” Samar’s voice was hushed and heavy, he was holding him very, very tightly. His arms did not bruise through Jylan’s robes by they were strong and tight and even if he attempted to break free he likely would not have been able to do so. His brother’s face was very close to his neck and he used one hand to pull the hood down, holding him tighter still. “ _I’m sorry…_ I’ll call you whatever you want, I’m just _sorry_ …”

If a hug could physically put someone back together, then that was what Jylan recognized in Samar’s embrace. If his brother could have changed anything about the past by holding tightly to him now, then he would have done so. It was unfortunate that there was nothing for him to mend or repair. There was struggle but no release, no fruit to the emotional labour his sibling was engaged in at present. He stood there and he was embraced and it was physically pleasant. He was held warmly by someone who smelled of something far away but familiar. He was not uncomfortable.

“As you are my eldest brother, I have no intention of influencing you beyond limiting the experience of confusion throughout the fortress.” He explained, his arms settled close but not tight around his sibling’s torso, holding him firmly and with clear intention, but not squeezing. “You may refer to me by my birth name at all times. However, I must ask that you refrain from belligerent correction of those who know me exclusively by my Chantry name.” Samar kissed him.

It was not expected.

“Yes, that’s fine- I’ll do that.” His brother kissed his cheek and then quickly kissed the other, then repeated both gestures. He was choked up and distressed, green eyes shimmering with tears, and he released the hug so he could take Jylan’s face and brush his thumbs over his cheeks, a gesture which implied an attempt to sooth despite Jylan himself feeling no distress. His brother, in contrast, was deeply moved and displaying clear pain and hurt over this interaction. “I’ll do whatever it takes for as long as I’m here, Jeevan, I will.”

“I have once again caused you great emotional pain, Samar. I apologize for-”

“You _shut up_.” He was scolded, and his brother choked on the words. “You’re not dead, that’s enough. That’s enough for me. I lost two brothers and now I’ve got one back again, not all of you maybe but enough of you. I just wish I could take you home with me.”

“I am of greater value to our family here with my contract to the Grey Wardens.” Samar was already nodding, shaking tears loose down his cheeks as he did so.

“I know… I know that… the Seneschal told me yesterday.” His brother kissed his brand- the pressure ached, it- was quickly ended by a return to the strong-armed embrace. The hug was more tolerable than the kiss, the hug was something he could return with his eyes sliding shut. It was pleasant affection. “You do good by Rian and them, Jeevan. And I mean it. I may not be smart like Rian but I know enough numbers to get what I was told. You do good by them, and I’m proud of you.” This was a pleasant admission on behalf of his brother.

“Thank you.” Samar’s hand touched the back of his head and stroked down over his braided hair, then rose and repeated the gesture. It was pleasing.

“Jylan?” The voice pulled them from each other. Jylan opened his eyes and his brother was much faster to drop his arms and separate, albeit not by much. He was given space to turn, and immediately recognized the Warden standing in the partly open door of the workshop. This was good.

“Warden Athras.” He nodded to welcome her inside. She entered the workshop and quietly closed the door behind her. She was wearing her Dalish vestments, long pleated leather boots that left her toes and heels bare on the stone floor, lengths of white cotton crossed with green felts and tan furs tucked and twisted around her slim figure. A leather bandolier across her torso held a satchel and sheathed dagger, and a thick grey scarf wound around her throat showed she had been about the castle, but perhaps not outside in the dwindling storm. Her grey eyes settled on Samar with confusion, then back to Jylan.

“Who is this?” She asked in a soft voice. The tone was uncharacteristic of her, but he complied with her request.

“This is my brother, Samar, from Gwaren.” Jylan introduced them with a gesture. “His ship was damaged in last night’s storm and it has delayed him here in Amaranthine until it can be repaired. Samar,” for his brother’s benefit now. “This is Lady An’eth Danyla Athras of Clan Zathrian, Warden Corporal of Amaranthine. She is my friend.” Samar nodded to him, and then looked to An’eth politely with a respectful nod and bow of his shoulders.

“There seem to be a lot of elves in the Fereldan Grey Wardens.” His brother made the comment awkwardly, but threw a shaken smile onto things. “I guess that’s a good thing, right?”

“I… suppose so.” An’eth did not speak easily and that, again, was unlike her.

“Warden Athras was one of the three Grey Wardens who journeyed to Gwaren last spring to meet with Rian in the Alienage.” Jylan explained this and it earned a soft _ah_ from Samar, who then turned a more critical eye on An’eth. No. That had not been his intention.

“So what’s the deal?” His brother asked her. “Did Rian just choke on his tongue every time you called him the wrong name, or did you forget to mention it to my brother here?”

“Mention what?” An’eth asked, remembering herself with a more direct look at Samar now. Jylan’s brother, like himself, was noticeably taller than the warrior before them.

“You mean to tell me you went around the entire Gwaren alienage asking for some Ansera family and no one bothered to tell you it was _Ashera?_ ” An’eth’s cheeks coloured briefly, and she looked at Jylan.

“We… assumed it was a mistake, that the chantry would have recorded Jylan’s name from your parents and the siblings just had…”

“Had just forgotten our own name? _Thanks_.” Samar folded his arms over his chest, but he took a surprisingly cavalier tone with a Grey Warden, and it was one An’eth tolerated patiently. “Guess this is what they mean about Dalish impressions of us flat-ears, eh? Too stupid to remember our own names?”

“It was a callous and unfair assumption on our part, Master Ashera.” An’eth apologized and Jylan reasoned that he stood to be corrected on this matter. He was missing some integral part of the reason why the Warden should apologize to the Sailor. “But I consider your brother someone very dear to me, and nothing I or Warden Velanna did was intended to harm or isolate him from his family.”

“Dear to you, huh?” Samar held his silence long enough to disregard another comment before making this one. He regarded Jylan briefly, then looked back and forth between him and An’eth for a moment. “You call her your friend?”

“Yes.”

“Fine, who’m I to judge.” It was not Samar’s place to insert himself as a judge of Jylan’s connections or acquaintanceships with other people within the Vigil, it was good that he recognized the matter and it did not warrant explicit explanation.

“Jylan, can I speak with you privately for a moment?” An’eth spoke her request in a rush, fingers beginning to twist and worry together. This anxiety was unlike her. “You weren’t in your room or fetching your dinner, and the weather was too foul for you to be in the gardens. I know you must be happy to see your brother, but- this is important. It won’t take long, I promise.” He disregarded her comment about happiness and nodded to answer the request itself.

“The work day has concluded and the hours are my own.” He made his statement and then looked to his brother. “Samar, if you would wait a few minutes outside. When Warden Athras and I have concluded our meeting, I will take you to the servant’s mess hall where we shall establish whether you may receive a full portion from the kitchens, or be required to share from my allotment. A meeting with the Seneschal will no doubt have to wait until tomorrow morning.”

“You really are always this formal about everything, aren’t you?” Jylan nodded at the question, and his brother heaved a sigh and then nodded back to him, giving Warden Athras a warry look before inclining another brief bow to her. He left the workshop and swung the door shut behind him with a soft click.

“Jylan-” she came to him at once and took both his hands in hers, squeezing tightly before her touch walked up his arms, to his shoulders, to his face. Her raw voice was full of pain when she gasped and spoke to him. “Did I _hurt_ you? Have I done something wrong? Jylan, please, if I did something then it was a mistake- an accident. _Lethallin_ , do I _frighten_ you?”

“I do not understand.” She was anxious and afraid. Her disturbed emotions were fraying wildly at her constitution. “You have not harmed me, An’eth. You have never taken steps to intimidate or control me.” Her hands brushed up through his hair and down, sliding down behind his ears and across his throat. The affectionate intention behind her caress was understood but found no resonance with him. The sensation was pleasant. “You are distressed, but I do not know the reason why.”

“Did I hurt you when you were sick?” She pleaded and he did not understand the necessity of it. He was not alarmed; and thus he did not require pleading to maintain his focus on her.

“I can not recall your immediate presence for the duration of my illness.” He answered. “If you were present and I have forgotten it, then please do not allow it to reflect negatively on your efforts.”

“But you were _scared_.” Her tears were unnecessary, and her statement was incorrect.

“I am tranquil, An’eth. I an incapable of experiencing or expressing fear.”

“I know that- I _know_ , but you were _saying things_ and I-”

“You are distressed and weeping, An’eth.” He interrupted her because her breaths had grown shallow, her voice becoming increasingly high and whittled with hysteria. “This is not as I have come to know you. You must make an effort to calm yourself. If I am able to assist you then please permit me to do so.”

“ _The Warden Commander-_ ” She gasped, hands clinging to his robes.

“An’eth.” He did not know-

“ _Hold me-_ ” This he knew. This he had done before, although never with her in a state of such outright distress.

He had sat with her on nights not long after his arrival at Vigil’s Keep and let her lean her head on his shoulder as she spoke of her Clan and her mother and the places she had been, the people she missed, and her reasons for joining the Grey Wardens.

He had been aware of her aiding him on the long journey to Redcliffe last year, as a part of the Warden Commander’s army that had besieged and ultimately destroyed Redcliffe Castle. She had kept watch by his fire, helped him find shelter from the foul weather, and treated him with her company and kindness both during and after the war. She had ensured his needs were met while away from Vigil’s Keep, both in physical terms of food and rest, as well as professional needs such as simply having the materials necessary to fulfill his obligations to the Grey Wardens while on the road.

He held her now and she wept openly against him. He did not understand, and he need not do so. She asked only that he hold her and Jylan did as much now. He wrapped an arm around her trembling shoulders and the other around her waist, her hand crawling up that same arm and clinging under his shoulder. He held firmly, ensured his embrace would not slip, and kept his head inclined so when she pressed her forehead to him it touched his chin and jaw, a sign of refuge. An emotional investment was not required so long as he was physically present.

 _“Ar lath ma,_ ” she gasped, and at first he did not know the words. _“Ar lath ma, vhenan. Ir abelas, Jylan, ar lath ma…_ ” _I love you, I love you my heart. Forgive me, I love you_.

This distress was his fault. The revelation was disappointing, but not entirely unforeseen.

“An’eth…”

“I know you’re tranquil…” She whimpered the words in her softest voice, reigning in the worst of her emotions. “But if you weren’t… is there any way that you-?”

“Your question is the same as asking a blind man to choose a favourite colour, or the deaf to sing a song they do not know.” It would not do for her to dwell in misunderstanding and delusion. He was tranquil. He did not let go of her, but he would not answer a call he could not feel.

“Do I frighten you?”

“I am as incapable of recognizing fear as I am of reciprocating love, An’eth. You hurt yourself with this endeavor, and that is a grave misfortune.” She ignored his statement and he felt her press her face close and warm against him. She took a breath at his throat, and then spoke again.

“Do I remind you of your time in the Circle?”

“No.” She was calmer, but not yet herself. He raised his hand from her shoulder and gathered her red hair with his fingers, brushing it away from her throat and down. It was soothing when his own hair was touched, he intended to pass on a similar sense of security. “It would be a strange connection to form as you are unlike any member of the factions from Kinloch Hold.”

“Did I hurt you? Have I ever, _ever_ hurt you? Tell me, Jylan.”

“No, An’eth. I cannot recall any incident wherein I have been harmed by your presence.”

She slipped her arms around him and hugged him tightly. He had received many hugs today. They were pleasant.

“I love you… Are you going to send me away from you for it? Tell me to leave you alone?”

This question, unlike the others, he considered at length before answering.

“If it would expedite the process by which you are relieved of this affection for me, then I would suggest such a course, yes.” She held him tighter, he felt her anxiety rise again. “However, as long as you remain cognizant of the fact that I am unable to engage with or support your emotional needs, and you are also able to spare yourself unnecessary heartache over the matter, then no. Ultimately, An’eth, it is you who must make such a decision for yourself, as I have no viable role to play in whichever choice you make.” He would simply remain as he was: tranquil, and apart.

They remained standing there for some time together. Quietly. He stroked her hair again, intending to impart a sense of calm upon her. It was unclear how effective his efforts were.

“I love you, Jylan…”

“I am sorry, An’eth.”


	13. Scratching

 

Morrigan was upset about something. Soren noticed it immediately and long before he could become worried or upset over it, he was just quietly intrigued. Few things bothered her in a way that would make her become quiet or contemplative, but that was how she held herself today for the few minutes he saw her. It caught his attention very quickly even as he went straight to other matters.

Like the chaos and calamity of his Arling. Hurricanes were not unheard of off the Amaranthine ocean but it was late in what had been a very calm season and the storm had not been expected. At least two fishing villages had been either wiped out or at least had their roads washed away, with their Bann calling for his attention to the south east of Amaranthine City.

Bann Talbind within the City was holding his own quite well, but with staggering reports of ships being lifted and thrown like toys into the warehouse district. His letters had a keen edge of hysteria rubbed over them, giving his correspondence a tendency to read as follows: _‘the matter is under control even as THERE ARE SUNKEN SHIPS IN THE HARBOUR SEND HELP I expect the restorations to take no more than another week WHICH IS WHEN THE ROADS MIGHT LOOK LIKE ROADS AGAIN NOT RIVERS YOUR GRACE DO SOMETHING, cordially yours, Bann Talbind of Amaranthine City.’_

Soren dispatched letters to Denerim and Highever with news of the storm’s strike, marshalled the Silver Order and sent two companies to the afflicted shoreline to scout and lend aid. Nathaniel organized a scouting party of Grey Wardens and took Mahanon with him, the other Mage’s abilities likely to be a strong asset on the storm-beaten coast. Oghren oversaw additional patrols of the Pilgrim’s Way to ensure travellers caught in the squall’s wake had found shelter. Over all, Vigil’s Keep armed a quick and appropriate response to the crisis.

That competence gave Soren the freedom to address his Mistress’s mood.

Was the eluvian workshop comfortably heated? Yes it was. Was she delivered a portion of hot mulled wine for the chill? Yes she was. Did she partake of her lunch that was sent to the apartments? Clearly so. When he was given enough time to actually return and see her, did he make that effort? Of course.

“Does my Lady weep for my storm-blown subjects?” He entered the workshop and she didn’t notice him. He approached her, spoke to her, and slipped his arms around her waist from behind and _this_ earned him some attention. “Or are there matters further north that rest heavy in her heart?” He kissed the back of her neck, lingering there with a warm nudge of his face. She brought her hands up over his where they were linked in front of her, pulling her from the assorted runes and maps spread on the workshop table before her. He didn’t look at them: if she wanted his help with Tevinter then Morrigan would ask, anything else would involve prying.

“Neither,” she admitted quietly, leaning back against him briefly before she pulled away and turned. He let her go, pleased when all she did was turn to face him and lean back on the table, her hands plucking at him to ensure he remained at hand. This wasn’t a matter of business then, she wanted his presence and Soren was happy to oblige her.

A kiss? He moved just to come closer to her but Morrigan cupped his face, as sure a sign as anything, so of course he kept coming and let his lips tilt to fit just right against hers. She breathed deeply and brushed her warm hands through his hair, kicked a foot behind his leg to coax him closer still. Did she just want his attention? Had he been stingy with it?

“Talk to me?” He murmured to her lips, hands cupping her waist. No whispers, he wasn’t shy, just quiet to respect her mood.

“Come to bed with me.” A very agreeable idea, but despite his smile that wasn’t what he was here for.

“Certainly, but talk to me first.” He kissed her again, held her to him. The idea was no more off the table than Morrigan herself was. He stroked a thumb down the edge of her bodice, strummed his fingertips at the laces of her gown. “My Lady doesn’t grow sombre over cold bedsheets. Morrigan, talk to me.”

“I am troubled, leave it at that.”

“Then hide it better,” he chastised her with a smile. From her mouth to her throat, his lips left caresses on soft warm skin. His thumb hooked around the silk ribbons holding the carved amber pieces across her chest, moving them aside just to give him space to mouth and please her. She curled around him and her hand in his hair coaxed him to continue, working steadily towards her suggestion. He ended with a soft kiss at the hollow of her throat, and looked up with his lips brushing hers again. “If you don’t then I’m going to take it to mean it’s something between us.” He had her smiling now, warm and smug. Soren knew he did not have to say what came next, but he did so anyways:

“If this is still about that wedding idea then tell me, Morrigan, so we can settle this.”

Her smile froze, the languid warmth spreading through her limbs tensed up and cooled. When she imitated intimacy again with a hand brushing up his shoulder to his face, it was thin and false.

“It is not the wedding.” She told him and he couldn’t tell if she was lying. “It is not the wedding _itself_ , Soren. It is you.”

“Me?” He did not manage a genuine smile with his question, so admitted it was a front and let it fall.

“Yes.” He gave her space, it was not intended to be much but she stood properly and he was left with only a hand on her waist, and then gave up even that. “It is you, and your Circle, and your lies about it.”

He laughed at her.

“Oh- you’re _serious?_ ” He kept laughing, it didn’t have to be funny: her hurt look was plenty to keep him going. “Lady Morrigan is going to hold _me_ to task for lying? My love we both know I haven’t told the truth about something since I could tell the difference. Put the Circle from your mind: they’re gone and you never had a care for them anyways.”

“You demanded I speak to you and I am doing so.” Her voice was tight, dark lips pulled thin with offense. Let her be offended, it was just a front for her own embarrassment. “You will _listen_ -”

“I asked you to speak to me of sensible things, as I assumed those were all that could upset you.” He interrupted her with a harder voice this time, his laughter gone. “But _my_ Circle? Seven years after its Annulment, Morrigan, and _now_ you want me to talk about it? That chapter closed years ago, now ignore it as you have since then.” He was not going to humour this sudden interest of hers. Coming from Morrigan it was actually offensive.

“I know you’ve been lying.”

“I know you have black hair.” Her face reeled with disgust at his attitude. “Oh, are we not stating the obvious today? Forgive me, dear, you’ve got me in a panic: that I should be caught in a _lie!_ ” He would frustrate her, she would walk away, and in a few days when her temper cooled this would be done. “How can I ever admit that Irving used to pour honey in my hair and unleash bees on me as part of my training?” Lie. “And how he would forbid me to eat for days just to watch me struggle!” Truth. “That the Templars used to make us walk around stark naked for no reason?” Lie. “I’ve repressed and repressed but just cannot forget the dreaded communal toilets every Apprentice got pushed into at least once!” _Lie._

“ _Cease!”_ She shouted at him, flinging her arms about like a child in a tantrum. “Soren, I will have you speak seriously!”

Seriously? Yes, with _grave_ sincerity now, he nodded to her, he raised his hands to parlay. Enough of this. He spoke truthfully.

“ _Fine_ , Morrigan, we will do this your way.” He told her, measuring his voice out even and controlled again. “I don’t know how I’ve hidden it from you for so long, but I will not keep lying: all the toes of my left foot were eaten off by fish in Lake Calenhad and I wear a wooden prosthetic to hide the deformity.” He almost smiled through that one, but lied just the same.

She stared at him, she didn’t believe a single word he’d said and that was the beauty of it. She didn’t have any right to look at him and pin her melancholy on _him_ and _his Circle_ after fifteen years of ignoring where he’d found his start in life. Better she squawk at him for drinking Darkspawn blood in the Joining at Ostagar. Better she cry out over how he had not run to the Inquisition’s aid at their inception.

Instead, the stupid witch curled her tinted lips into her mouth and watched him. She took a shallow breath, cast her eyes from him, and Soren felt himself quickly bristle with alarm. She would _not_.

She drew one arm up around herself, lifted the curled fingers of her hand to her lips. Her next breath caught. _No._

“What are you playing at?” His voice surprised him, it was harsher than he meant it and she turned further away from him. “ _Enough_ , you will not pretend tears over this.”

“I will do as I _please!”_ She was loud and angry with him when she spat the venomous words, but those were tears. She was in tears. Morrigan was crying. No- she was not supposed to cry. She shed tears over nothing and even when the unthinkable happened her _voice_ \- “I _know_ your body, you bastard!” Thick and blubbering, that wasn’t what she was supposed to sound like. If she wept it was from her eyes not from her chest, not squeezing and sucking through her like a cancer, this wasn’t-

“I know _every_ scar and mark upon you!” She was on him and she was angry, rushing into his space and grabbing at his sleeves to twist and shove him, jabbing her fingers at him, chasing him back. “Every darkspawn blade! Every childling’s claws! Every wolf and sylvan and every one of your own reckless mistakes! You will _not_ mock me when I find the same scars on your back cutting up a _Tranquil_ from the same Circle!” She howled at him and he backed away from it. He didn’t engage, he didn’t yell back, he didn’t know what the hell was _happening_ -

“ _‘I was different’_ you always purr like it’s a lie worth listening to!” She railed and screamed and chased after him. “‘ _The Templars never touched me_ ’ you boast like it was an achievement! _‘Kirkwall was the exception!_ ’ ‘ _The Tranquil brought it on themselves!_ ’ _‘The Templars were to protect us!_ ’ _‘The sisters never noticed me!_ ’ Liar! _Liar!”_ She grabbed him and she shook him and then she shoved him away from her. None of it hurt but he was too _startled_ to do anything to defend himself. “You will _not_ mock my love for you- you will not _disrespect me_ when I stand at your ungrateful side! Weave whatever lies warm your cragged and bitter heart, but admit when your ruse is done and _tell me the truth!_ ”

He was shocked by her, jarred by her yelling and screaming and _weeping_. The rest of it he could have taken in stride except for that. Why in Andraste’s name were there tears? He wanted out of this and he knew he had taken missteps with her- he didn’t want to make it worse he wanted it to _stop_ and for this to be _over_. Soren went back through what she’d screamed at him and fought to find a way out.

“You’re going this far over something so over and done that the Inquisition which _stopped_ the war has already crumbled!” Scars. She’d opened this with scars- and that _fucking Tranquil_. “My back? My Circle? Things you have _never_ cared about! The Blight treated me worse than whatever you’re after with this. Where did you think those marks came from? A fall down the _stairs?_ The Circle was as I told you once upon a time ago, and you never bothered to ask me _once_ since then!”

“It was _you_ who always played these matters off as irrelevant!” She swiped one hand over her cheek to smear away the tears. Good! Let her feel shame for resorting to them! “That how the Circles treated you was nothing of consequence!”

“Because it _is_ nothing!” He shouted back. “The girl who sweeps our ashes out takes the same rod I did as a child! I lived where there were clothes and food and beds for everyone, that’s more than too many in Thedas can boast, Morrigan! Control yourself!”

“Tell me the truth of your damned Circle,” She hissed at him, but there were more tears and he would not do _anything_ for her so long as they remained. “How you were treated, _tell me._ ”

“Better than in your damned swamp,” he bit back. His anger was burning and he took it tightly in his hands, directing it exactly where it was meant to go. “Better than Fort _Drakon_ , or is that what you’ve suddenly deluded yourself into believing? That we were each shoved into an iron barred cage, splashed with gruel once a day, and dragged over the rack at the Templars’ slightest fancy?”

“If not the Templars’ fancy then the Chantry’s!” She shouted, approaching him again but this time he took a swipe at the hand raised to point and jab at him. No. He would not be chased like a mouse into a corner! “This is why you’ve kept Circle Mages and Tranquil from Vigil’s Keep all these years, because any _one_ of them would be able to tell what life was really like in that spire!”

“Chores, lessons, and prayers.” He snarled. “Over and over in an endless cycle that would have driven _you_ to leap from the tower windows and _‘dash myself upon the rocks’_ , as you once so poetically _spat_ to me!” He remembered that. He remembered her words. He remembered what she’d said about the Circle and its halls the only time he had dared let her near the island. A pity on him when he’d played the fool, worried and wondered after his Chasind lover’s safety when petitioning the Mages for aid against the Blight, only to have nothing but filth and poison babble from her lips until he’d cast her away and refused to speak to her again until Uldred’s corpse had gone cold.

“Tell me the _truth!_ ”

She’d hated the Circles. She’d hated _his_ Circle. She’d mocked Irving to Soren’s face, spoken poorly of Wynne without reproach, scoffed at his rank, dismissed his interests in the College, derided the Harrowing, and looked askance on a thousand years of magical tradition. Morrigan _hated_ the Circles of Magi and Soren felt his outrage ignite and enflame her image because _how dare she_ turn to _him_ as her next great attempt to destroy the cornerstone of who _he was_.

Hateful things filled his mouth. Wretched insults crawled and stuffed up his throat. Betrayal and pain scalded his palms looking for release that would make her reel back and flee from him. She would not attack his Circle she would not attack _him_ she would not take these liberties against his pride and walk over him like some know-nothing piece of chantry chattel!

“Your place was never in the Circle.” He knew the taint was in his eyes. He knew the air was raw with tension on the veil from magic he could have taken _so easily_ into his arms and struck out with. He felt the spirits and he felt his anger twisting them, corrupting them, felt Rage and Hunger and Pride ravenously licking at the far edges of his mind. “Your interests there are nil. Whatever you’re searching for, you will not find it here with me, Morrigan! No Apostate Sorceress is going to twist _my_ memories and turn the home I lost to revolutionaries into some wall of shame to mock and belittle in my hearing! I have had _enough_ , this is uncalled for, and we will not speak of it further.”

“Don’t you dare hide from me again you _coward-_ ” He had not moved, he would not. He let his body language be the blade that cut down her own rebuttal. He even ignored the false _again_ she threw at him for a rise.

“Choose something else,” he challenged her. “I’m not leaving until you start making sense again.”

She was quiet. She watched him. Soren was still angry and the taint was hurting his eyes: it was prickling and gnawing hard at the nerve behind each one, threading like a harsh rash up and down his ears before brazing the back of his neck. It hurt, but it was superficial. He made no effort to pull the effects from his eyes, capable of letting her know he was still angry with her without actively working against her.

 Morrigan’s tears had stopped but there was a shielded, hesitant darkness crossing her face. She was hurt and he refused to feel sympathy, he wanted her to _move on_.

The question she asked him was stupid, but it was different and that was what he’d demanded:

“Do you love me?” He knew it was her way of repairing the damage of their argument, but it annoyed him that she had to reach _so deeply_ into the core of their relationship after a fight that had only cracked the surface. Stupid question.

“More than I know what to do with, most days.” What mattered was that he answered her. This, he would never lie about. “Frustrating as you are, never doubt that you are my heart, Morrigan.”

He approached her and stopped when she didn’t move. Her reserved gaze was searching him for something and he waited. The taint was slowly retreating, the ghostly light from his eyes fading and the reckless pain in his skin easing away. She hesitated and asked another question. He had none for her, he was offended, not hurt.

“Do you trust me?” She asked.

“I trust you to always act in accordance with your own nature,” this was a more complicated question, but just as easily answered. “And I trust myself to know what that means, whatever the context. If something you don’t give an honest damn about comes between you and something you want, Morrigan, then I know you won’t care who you hurt or what it takes to reach your goal. I love you, yes, and I trust you, but that doesn’t mean you won’t turn around and hurt me when you feel like it.” He hurt her again by saying that, he saw the flash of it and the recoil through her shoulders when she edged a foot away from him.

“I would not do so recklessly, Soren.” Her words were too soft. “I love you too deeply to-”

“You just did,” he interrupted. “With all of this, you just did, and you always do.” He hurt her. Like tiny cuts between her fingers, he was making her sting. “Don’t talk to me about the Circles, Morrigan. Your hatred always twists what you say, and it makes you deaf to whatever I try to tell you. If you want someone to dig at then go get your Tranquil friend in the lower levels. Or wait for Warden Sephri to come back and spit poison with her in your spare time: she should be on her way home from Antiva by now. Just leave me out of it, I have enough to handle in a day without trying to correct your ignorance at the same time.”

“I…” By hurting her he’d humbled her. Neither part was something he enjoyed, but she lowered her eyes and softened her voice and she was humble. “It… was not my intention to hurt you, Soren. I am _worried_ for you. You have not been yourself these past days, and neither Zevran nor I have yet discovered a reason for it.”

They did not trade apologies often. Soren didn’t say anything as she proceeded to explain herself, holding his comments back because if he dismissed her too roughly she would take hurt in an even further manner and he didn’t _want_ that.

“You and the Tranquil here at Vigil’s Keep both bear scars from your Apprenticeship in the Circle of Magi,” she continued. “It was not a similarity I was expecting. I wondered if it were not something related to the fact that you are both elves, but he gave no indication of that being the case.”

“ _All_ Apprentices were beaten, Morrigan.” He had _just said_ he did not want to discuss the Circles with her but if she could keep that soft, modest voice of hers then he would humour her _just this once_. “Just like the Templars were strictly disciplined, or the Initiates were given penance. Some more than others, and some hardly ever. Connor was a pious boy from a powerful noble house so I doubt he was ever hit hard enough to leave scars. I was taken much younger than most, so I learned how _not_ to get the rod after taking too many hits just for my age. Ansera wasn’t even a good enough Apprentice to make it to his Harrowing. You can’t compare these things when every Apprentice was different. Are you really trying to say I’ve been having trouble sleeping because Revered Mother Senna shaved my head when I was eight?”

“Did she?” Morrigan’s hesitation was the only reason he answered, but he made his lips curl with a false bit of smugness.

“No, it was the Templars who cut our hair when the dorms needed delousing.” Senna was the one who- “Enough, Morrigan. We’ll speak no more of this.” He held a hand out to her. Let this be over.

She hesitated, he saw it, but then yes: she took his hand. She was watching his arm and then looked at him, hiding her hurts and squeezing his fingers tightly in a gesture he mimicked before tugging her closer. Enough. No more fighting. Their noses touched and he coaxed her into his arms, letting her fall close to him in a warm embrace. This was better, this would sooth her and by extension calm him down as well.

“You and Zevran worry because you love me.” He murmured to her, his eyes closed, her warmth a soothing and welcome sensation against him. “Thank you…”

Morrigan didn’t answer him, but she brought her hands up and cupped his face, brushing her thumbs over his cheeks and cradling him like that for several long seconds. Her breaths were not each even or steady, she was hurt and she was upset and there was concern wrapped with worry tying knots in her heart. He held her a little tighter and she sighed heavily over him, sliding her hands down and twisting her arms around his shoulders to hug him close, their faces still touching and his eyes shut to help focus on her.

He wanted these fights and blow-ups to _stop_. Her arms circling him and the tension easing from her shoulders spoke of similar relief in her, and that was good. Enough of this. He wanted her to enjoy her time at home, not feel burdened during this precious window of theirs. Their fight this evening had been unfortunate, he didn’t want a repeat of it.

Morrigan took a quick breath and then spoke.

“Go get your staff.” She pulled away just to dip her face close and catch his lips in a brief kiss.

“Hmm?” Brief, it was over before he could gather a reply.

“And a warm cloak, your warmest one.”

“Are we going somewhere?”

“Yes, through the eluvian.” The day had officially wound down by now, he was unlikely to be missed before tomorrow morning. “Just for a few hours, but it will be cold.”

“Anything I should expect?” He asked, but he wasn’t protesting the decision. Morrigan curled her bottom lip into her mouth briefly, her teeth tugging at it before she gave him a taunting little smile and stepped away from him, their hands trailing together before the embrace fell.

“Something _fun_. Do we have any lyrium?” Lyrium implied a _completely_ different kind of fun than what Morrigan had alluded to much earlier.

“Cabinet to your right, you have the key.” Soren went to go fetch his cloak and staff. His armour might have been a good idea, but would take too long. The travel kit from his jaunt to Amaranthine was still resting over the back of a chair in their bedroom, so he belted that on over his robe before taking up his iron and bloodstone staff and swinging a heavy bearskin cloak around his shoulders.

He was on his way _back_ to the workshop when Zevran finally poked his head into the corridor from the salon.

“Thank the _Maker_ you two never get into such fights when Kieran is around,” he swore. “You’re smiling so you made up, good! Play nicely now, I don’t want to go chasing you through the Crossroads again.”

“ _Yes, mother_.” Soren taunted, “We’ll be back before dawn, I hope.”

“Happy hunting, blow Morrigan a kiss for me.” Soren scoffed at him, shouldering open the workshop door.

“ _No._ ”

Zevran stuck his tongue out and returned to the salon.

Soren replaced the wards guarding the workshop against unwanted interlopers.

And Morrigan led him with a smile and a hand through the mirror towards something _fun_.                                                                                                                


	14. Family Names

 

Jeevan had picked up some weird-ass habits in the Circle of Magi. Or maybe it was his guild Samar was supposed to blame for being woken up before the Maker Himself in that black little cell his brother called his own.

Samar had expected to sleep with his blanket on the floor; Jeevan had expected him to sleep on the bed. They’d compromised and crowded one another on the thin mattress instead. Warm, that was the most important thing, warm and comfortable and trying the fastest thing to try and break down how hard it was to talk to his brother. When you only had one room for sleeping and eight heads to lay down, you learned how to get and stay cozy with one another. It wasn’t hard to go back to. Samar went to bed with his back cramped to the fortress wall and a quiet fear in his blood that Jeevan would lay flat and still as the dead all night, same as he did when awake, but a few hours later his heart started beating comfortably again.

He woke up, needed nothing but a little stretch of his leg and a shift on the thin pillow, and found Jeevan practically grappling with him under the warm quilt. Arms and legs going everywhere and twisted around Samar so tight he couldn’t have gotten out of bed if he’d tried. Same as when they’d been kids.

He hugged his brother back in the dark, hid his nose from the cold air of the cell, and went back to sleep. He smelled like family and fragrant elfroot.

Jeevan woke up first, which shouldn’t have surprised him, but Samar got the rude awakening of the hug he’d been twisted around firmly letting go and getting away from him. It was black as Maferath’s Heart in the room and not even the birds would be up yet, what the fuck was he doing?

“ _Hey_ ,”

“You may return to sleep.”

“Where’re you going?”

“To work.” No. _No._ This is not what shore leave was supposed to be like…

Samar stayed in the bed. Jeevan had a good bed, he’d give him that much: the mattress was stuffed with wool and firmly packed straw, warm and comfortable. The linen sheets were good and long, the wool blanket was big too, and the quilt on top added weight the thinner layers lacked. Vigil’s Keep looked after its servants, even the elven ones, and he dropped his face in the warmth until a sound caught his attention and made him look up.

“What’re you doing _now?_ ”

“Three sets of seven.” Push-ups? Apothecaries did push-ups? Samar had to count out three sets of seven to get twenty-one. Apothecaries did _weak_ push-ups.

“I can do more than that,” he boasted around a yawn.

“Your profession lends itself to more intensive displays of strength and endurance.” When he started pulling sit-ups in the dark, Samar groaned and pulled himself out of bed. He settled next to him, scratching his back and stifling another yawn.

“How many?”

“Three sets of ten.”

“I can do five.”

“It would not be unreasonable.” C’mon, joke with him, boast with him, _do something…_

“You’re not gonna light a candle are you?”

“It is not normally required.”

Getting dressed in the dark with his brother was weird, alright? It was just weird. The sun wasn’t coming up so there was no way for him to fucking _see_.

“What’re you doing _now?_ ” And he kept being _so quiet_ about it. Stop being creepy!

“Arranging my hair.”

“Jeevan, candle. For fuck’s sake, light a candle. You know your room in the dark, I-” He knocked something that fell and made a _fucking awful_ noise in the pitch black and yeah, he swore. He yelled a little bit. Fuck this _in_ - _the_ - _dark_ bullshit.

“That was the brazier.” Which explained the smell of ash in the air now.

“I’ll clean it up _if you light a fucking candle_.”

His brother finally lit a candle for him and the dim red glow was enough for Samar to find his shoes and a clean shirt for the day. He had a trunk of warm clothes in Gwaren but they weren’t doing him much good in Amaranthine right now. A single wool tunic that had been at the very bottom of his bag for the last eight months came out and he stuffed it over his head, lacing up a set of hide vambraces just to give his forearms a bit of cover. At least the workshop would be _warm_.

Samar just followed him around. It was like being on a ship for the first time only much bigger and way quieter. They went straight to his workshop and fine, work first then eat, but all Jeevan did was strike a fire, fill a cauldron with water, and then they immediately left again.

“The Seneschal should be about his business by first bell.”

“Well there’re no windows down here so I don’t know when that’ll be.”

“After deliveries.” Deliveries? He’d thought Jeevan worked as a chemist, not a runner.

Ooh, hot bread, nevermind. Fresh bread. The kitchen hall they entered wasn’t warm but it was on its way there. Servants and working folk were milling about in a sleepy way, some taking a cup of soup or tea with them as they took their portion of the morning meal. Yesterday Samar had shared a cup of thick creamy stew with lumps of potato and carrot and beans in it with his brother, the soup drizzled all over with thick drippings from the meats served to the Grey Wardens upstairs.

Samar was noticed for being different and unfamiliar, so he stuck to his brother’s side. He touched nothing, took nothing, and just watched his brother go about his morning routine.

Today Jeevan took his allotment of bread, filled it with a generous smear of butter and a spoonful of apple preserve, and after letting the bun melt the dreamy delights inside its hot crust he tore it in half and gave Samar a chunk of it. It wasn’t a lot of food but it was _good food_ , to go with the good bed and the good clothes he wore. Shit, this wasn’t the brother Samar should have been worried about. Jeevan found the flaw in a small yellow apple and with a sharp twist the fruit came apart in two even halves for them to share. There was still attention on Samar’s back, but no one said anything as they left the dining hall.

Samar noticed his brother just carried his food rather than eat and walk at the same time, but didn’t question it. They went back to the workshop and _here_ Jeevan ate, methodical and slow as anything, and started checking a little book and filling a wide basket with blocks of stuff, and bottles of other stuff, and jars of still more stuff. This was what he’d meant by deliveries.

“Can I ask why this stuff gets delivered instead of people just coming to pick it up?”

“As I am alone in the workshop until Warden Guerrin’s return from the Anderfels, it is more manageable to arrange morning deliveries than to send word throughout the keep when requisitions are filled. Or, alternatively, to permit denizens of the Vigil to repeatedly intrude and demand their items.”

“They get them when they get them.”

“Yes.”

Okay fine, but that basket was clearly heavy and Samar considered taking it from him, but then it would be just as hard for _him_ to lug around. Their first stop was the Kennelmaster where Jeevan handed over a jar of something, and Samar was too interested in the dogs to mind the stilted conversation. These were _mabari._

Real, actual mabari owned by the _Grey Wardens_ _of Ferelden_. Of course the Wardens needed servants the same as any other fortress, but to think that _his brother_ got to work for them. And these dogs were big monsters too, their kennels were as tall as Samar’s chest and warm and dry inside. Strong as a horse and twice as smart, teeth like meat tenderizers and paws big enough to fill Samar’s boots. Sure, they reeked, but Samar had dealt with whale intestines putrefying on his deck before: dog stink was nothing.

There was a great big black one with amber eyes that watched him steadily, and a sandy yellow one who was more interested in rubbing her back on the floor of her kennel than in paying him any mind. Then a grey one who was passed out asleep and was noticeably smaller and younger than the rest, and finally- woah, excited! This one was up and awake, wagging his back end with its stubby tail and all but grinning at Samar from behind the bars.

“Good to have you back on your feet just the same, Compounder. Here he is, then.” Huh? Samar got out of the Kennelmaster’s way when the human appeared behind him, retreating back to his brother’s side as the man rattled a set of keys, cooed to the excited and absolutely overjoyed hound in the kennel being unlocked, and then let him out. “No one in the Keep is happier than Dirth here.”

Dirth the dog came prancing out of his kennel and threw his front paws up, planting them hard on Jeevan’s hip and snuffing at him, wiggling his hind end like he could hover if he tried hard enough. He slobbered and he barked and he made a big fuss, and Jeevan’s only reaction was to awkwardly get a hand on the hound’s head and push him down on all four paws again.

“Hey, he’s just being friendly,” Samar cooed, coming to the mabari’s defense as the dog scurried around Jeevan’s feet and circled him twice, looking for more than a push on the head. “That your Warden Guerrin’s dog?”

“Nay. Warden Guerrin’s is the young grey behind you.” The Kennelmaster gave the answer and Samar looked again at the sleeping pup in the kennel he’d already visited. “She was but a bit of fuzz when he left this summer, much too small to go with him. Near as I can tell Dirth might be her sire though, since he and Laklah the black one all came from House Guerrin’s kennels after the war.”

“Wait, so- _no._ ” There was no way. The dog sitting and leaning and staring adoringly up at his blank-eyed brother was _absolutely not_ \- “Andraste’s Flaming Sword, you’re an elf! You’re no Warden- how in the Six Seas did you get a _mabari?”_

“An unwise act on behalf of Lady Rowan Guerrin, which went uncorrected by her brother.” Jeevan actually sounded _upset_ for once. It was there in the very _kernel_ of his words. “It is now irreversible.”

“I asked myself the same thing every day for a month!” The Kennelmaster was laughing, but it had a good sound to it. “He’s imprinted though, sure as anything. Don’t be so hard on yourself, Compounder, you take good care of him.”

“Good day, Kennelmaster.” That was as close to saying _‘shut up_ ’ as Samar had seen him come.

They left and Samar was enthralled with the hound- a _mabari!_ A real and raw mabari! A war-hound of legend, from a proper noble breeder! And Jeevan _didn’t like it!?_

“I would encourage you to engage with the animal for the duration of your stay at Vigil’s Keep.” Jeevan told him in the same low, even voice, but with a smart bit of attitude added to it. “As I am incapable of providing the proper emotional stimulation required by a mabari, the task of enriching the animal’s day to day interactions often falls to others. As we are brothers, there may exist a chance that the imprint will transfer between us.”

“As much as I wish that was true, you’re off your rocker if you don’t want this thing.” Who wouldn’t want a _mabari_ for the Maker’s sake!? Samar turned to the hound that was trotting along right as rain in the dim dawn glow behind them and got its attention. “ _Who’s a good boy? Who’s a big scary war dog? It’s you! Yes it’s you!_ Haha! Look at him run around!” What an excitable thing!

“I am aware.” _Stick in the mud_.

The morning tumbled down after that, unfortunately. The mason grumbled that the glue had taken too long to arrive and he’d already ordered another batch from Amaranthine City, but he took this order anyways. The clerk at the inn rolled her eyes while asking if Jeevan’s fever was gone, took the ink bottles, and had nothing else to say before they left. The baker’s wife took two bottles of witch hazel and then gave Jeevan an absolutely _wretched_ tearing down for how late it was and how long she’d waited and how the colour wasn’t what she’d wanted and- and Samar very nearly closed her own front door on her. _Wow_.

The Seamstress though. The _Seamstress_. Shit, Dirth put his stubby tail between his legs before they even got to the slumping stone wall around the modest property, and anywhere a mabari refused to tread Samar _did not_ want to go. Between the dog’s behaviour and Samar’s raised nerves, Jeevan actually stopped at the gate and told him to just stay at the fence.

“What’s wrong with this house?” He asked, because what the fuck.

“Mistress Correlay has a rudimentary knowledge of dyes and dye-making,” Jeevan explained in dead, monotone measure. “But a poor memory for which herbs reveal which colours. Therefore, she will make requisitions for dyes based on the name of the plant but expect other colours to appear in the yarns and threads. I have attempted to compile sample boards so that she may simply select the colour, but this method offended her: she disapproved of the notion that an elven apothecary should know more of dye-making than a seamstress. It is an ongoing point of contention.”

“So what’s going to happen today?”

“She is going to receive a portion of Amaranth dye, which is maroon in colour, and insist that Amaranth yields a green dye correctly associated with heatherfrond.”

“Okay and if you just made her heatherfond dye and _said_ it was Amaranth to get her off your back?” Jeevan was quiet.

“I had not considered that option.” Well he _should have._ “It has been my intention to wait for Warden Guerrin to return to Vigil’s Keep and correct her behaviour. She is merely belligerent, not violent.”

“Okay.” No, not okay. They weren’t waiting for this Guerrin guy to come back from the far side of Andraste’s ass. “Is she human?”

“Yes.”

“Then give me your robe.”

“I do not understand.”

“Gimmie your fucking robe.” Jeevan didn’t move. “Look, I might not be as young as you or Rian but I’ll bet half the humans in this place can’t tell two elves apart anyways. Robe. Off. Now.”

“You intend to trick the seamstress.” Jeevan put his basket down and the dog was watching them with a tilted head. He undid the buttons on his robe and- oh, it was two robes. Okay. Give him both then.

“I’m gonna put the fear of the Maker in her is what I’m gonna do.” The white robe was a bit tight in the arms and the blue one was _really_ tight in the chest, but he flung his cape around Jeevan’s shoulders when he looked a little cold standing there in the slowly rising dawn. _“C’mere, boy…_ ” Dirth gave him a straight look that was a bit eerie for a dog, but Jeevan shooed the animal off and Samar pulled the hood of the blue robe up over his head.

Samar made sure he wasn’t smiling or doing anything stupid with his face, heaved a soft sigh to look just bored at everything, and knocked on the door. He took the dye, nicely labelled, and when the door opened there was a busybody-looking human woman with a frazzled red braid who scowled at him.

“Wait here.” She clicked her tongue at him and Samar was quiet, he nodded his head, he stared at the rushes on her floor and saw the corner of a busy loom resting in the middle of her home. The woman came back again after a quick minute and handed him a wrapped bundle, took her bottles of dye, and said: _“_ Maker go with you. Take better care of yourself,” before shutting the door again.

Well fuck.

 _‘I am a bad person and Andraste knows all my shitty sins_.’ Samar went back to where his brother was waiting around the bend in the lane. Jeevan was looking at him and only him, like he was almost eager for what Samar had to report.

“So, uh, she was actually kinda nice.” He admitted, bashful, sheepish, and feeling generally shitty. He held out the wrapped something and put the basket down, undoing the toggles on the robe to give the warm wool back. “That’s for you.”

“This is a portion of cured ham.” A significant chunk too, at least a few days’ worth for one person. Fuck. Samar was a bad person. “Perhaps at the next delivery she will regain her more typical attitude. Or there is always the possibility that she noticed that you were not me.”

“Nah, she told me to take care of my health.” He tossed the blue robe over the fence, pulling off the white one and handing it back to Jeevan, who slipped his arms back through the garment and did the buttons up while waiting for the blue layer. “Totally elf-blind. Where else do we have to go?”

“Another two bottles of witch hazel for the house at the end of the lane, and then to the midwife with several elfroot poultices.” They started walking, and it wasn’t until they’d finished handing over the bottles to an old woman who was perhaps the most pleasant person on the run, that Samar finally gave his brother a sideways look in the cresting dawn and called him out.

“You were actually gonna let me fuck with the seamstress.” The fortress was definitely waking up, but Samar wouldn’t have called it _awake_ just yet. Dewy grass and stones gave the air a crisp, wet smell, the sky blushed pink and orange with faint clouds. The last of the hurricane was long, long gone at last. “As in, on my first day here, you were gonna let me mess with and get in trouble with one of your patrons.”

“I did not consider her a threat to you.” Jeevan kept his eyes ahead on the path they were walking through the vigil, steep lanes bricked with houses and buildings, gravel that crunched under their feet and led to little yards with penned animals and damp vegetable patches. “The operation of the workshop is not reliant on her patronage specifically. Unless you carry a debilitating fear of needles or human women, the task did not seem unmanageable.”

“She treats you like crap and you wanted to see me scare the pants off her.” At this point if Jeevan suddenly looked at _him_ and started screaming profanities, Samar would lose more than just his pants. It would have been priceless if she’d given Samar a reason to jump at her.

“I did not want it, as want is an expression of desire.” His brother corrected him and it was hard not to roll his eyes. There was _no_ spirit left in him! “However, I am unopposed to the idea of harmless trickery.” -what?

“Are you serious?”

“Not gravely so, but I am being truthful.” Samar stopped with a crap grin on his face again, and Jeevan stopped to check why.

“Gimmie your robe before we get to the midwife.”

“No.”

“You just said-!”

“You are not to prank midwife Valora under any circumstances.”

“It’s harmless trickery, you said so yourself!”

“And I have also stated that under no circumstances are you to prank midwife Valora.” Hang on, midwife. _Midwife_. That was familiar.

“Is this the same woman who helped when you were sick?” A little thing, the old _Hamae_. Samar remembered seeing her with the Warden Commander.

“Yes.” Okay, _fine_ , if it was the same woman then putting on a hood wouldn’t help anyways. No messing with the midwife. “Mistress Valora is a highly respected craftswoman.”

“You’ve been out of the alienage a bit too long if you think I’m gonna pull anything on a _Hamae_ ,” Samar grumbled at him, and they continued walking.

“I do not believe I know that word.”

“ _Grandmother?_ C’mon! I’m not Dalish and I still know that much.”

“ _Hahren_ , for elder. _Lethallin_ and _Lethallan_ , for-” Oh, they were doing a vocabulary lesson now?

“Those two are _really_ Dalish. Don’t think I’ve ever heard _Lethallin_ from a city elf.” But, if they were on this topic then it was better than silence or blank staring. “What about _ma halam!_ Know that one?”

“No.”

“It’s fun to yell at Raiders.”

“It is an insult?”

“Like a threat. _Seth’lin_ ’s another good one, I like the way it rolls off the tongue.”

“Perhaps you can ask Warden Athras or Warden Howe if there are more insults in the old language. They are both Dalish, as is Warden Lavellan, but he and I are not well acquainted.”

“Athras is the one you met with last night, right?” The worried looking one? “Was everything alright with her?”

“The matter discussed was both unfortunate and considered private, I would prefer not to speak of it.” Fair enough.

They reached the midwife’s hutch and went directly inside. Introductions were made by Jeevan, who had to drink a deep cup of lemon and elfroot tea from the chair the midwife put him in. She scolded him harshly for being up and about so soon after his illness, but it wasn’t mean-spirited like the baker’s wife, or dismissive like the clerk at the inn.

“And you,” the midwife finally turned on him, having accepted the introduction from Jeevan about him with little more than a nod. “You’ve not yet spoken to the Seneschal and that means you’re not to take food from the keep: it’s not a charity hall and Quartermaster Felsi will break your fingers if she catches you thieving. What have you eaten since arriving yesterday?”

“My brother’s shared his portions with me, ma-”

“ _You’d take food from a sick man?_ ” She cut him quick with her tongue and then turned from them both with her hands in the air. She stomped over her rushes and muttered black things under her breath, huffing and tearing the top off a heavy woven basket sitting next to her long work table. Bits of paper and wool came out of the basket, and Jeevan voiced a small statement of protest before the terrifying _Hamae_ got him to shut up again with just a look.

“Tranquil or no, all men are idiots.” Into Jeevan’s basket went three hen’s eggs and a portion of white cheese. Then she brought out a small pie and wrapped it in a length of brown paper, placing it next to the eggs, the seamstress’ ham, and the cheese. She turned to Samar with a finger that had all the intensity and threat of a sharpened knife and wagged it harshly under his nose. “You will take _no more food_ from your brother, he is ill! He must eat! Jylan! You will eat the entire portion, _all of it_ , and I expect you to continue taking the elfroot until you are _completely_ recovered. And _finally_ , for _both of you_ ,”

She whirled herself up into a tizzy and then came down on them with a loud huff, standing between her crackling fire and the two of them with a scowl.

“Ashera or _Ansera_ , which is it?” She asked them, and her hard shell cracked a bit with a sorry frown of real concern passing over her face. “What was your father’s name? Your mother’s? You’re both old enough and should know how important these things are!”

“The family name is Ashera, _Hamae_.” Samar explained for the hundredth time, knowing full well he’d have to say it again for the Seneschal soon. “The Chantry changed both his names when they took him to the Circle, but I don’t know why.”

“To break the family line.” Uh- she came out so easy with it, and her frown deepened noticeably as she looked at Samar, then walked to Jeevan with both her hands out to warmly cradle his face. He didn’t react to the gesture but Samar was warmed by it. “In Orlais every time a slave or a servant changes noble hands they change their names, first or last or both, to make it harder for them to run away and try to find family they’ve been separated from. It’s an old practice going back at least as far as the Fall of the Dales when the Chantry destroyed every record of elven houses and heroes to stop our people from having anything to harken back to. That’s why the Dalish cling to their clans so fiercely. That’s why Orlesian and Tevinter elves always have so many names: most are from their masters, but at least one will be their own.”

The _Hamae_ was looking at Jeevan as she told them this, and it wasn’t news really. The _Hahren_ in Gwaren had told stories like it, reminded the Alienage of what it was like living under the Orlesian occupation, what it meant to have the Hero of Ferelden come from their blood even if there was no telling what his name really was. Samar had always guessed _Soren Surana_ was just a Chantry change on what the Hero actually called himself, but that hadn’t come up yet. He didn’t seem like the kind of person who would have let the Chantry change his name anyways.

Jeevan though… Yeah, as much as Samar hated thinking about it, his brother hadn’t had much choice to fight back. He didn’t even have his smile anymore; it was no surprise they’d taken his name too.

“My husband’s name was Pierre,” Valora murmured softly, brushing a few wayward strands of Jeevan’s hair back behind his hear. “But when the Orlesians were finally driven out of Ferelden by King Maric he let us call him Vessan again, his given name.”

“Vessa is named after her grandfather.” Jeevan stated in his dull voice, and Valora nodded before kissing the top of his head and letting go of him. It was nice to know there was at least one person in this keep who was sweet on him.

“It’s up to you whether you use your Chantry name or your family name, Compounder.” She explained kindly. “I assume you’ll use the Chantry one with the humans and when doing business, but if you want to share your real one then I’d encourage you to do so.”

“If it will provide you with emotional comfort, Mistress Valora, then I am not opposed to your use of my given name in private.” He gave a funny way of getting around to the idea but Samar was happy with his answer just the same. The more people who started using it the sooner it wouldn’t be weird and he could just get rid of the Chantry name all together. “According to Samar my given name is Jeevan.”

“Should I share this name with Vessa when she comes home tonight?”

“I leave that to your discretion.”

“No, _dah’len_ , names like this are important. I won’t share it with her if you don’t want me to.”

Jeevan went very quiet and ultimately didn’t say anything. He really didn’t care. He wasn’t capable of it.

“Maybe not for now?” Samar suggested, and Jeevan stood up with thanks for the tea. He repeated her instructions for him to drink more elfroot throughout the day and to make sure he ate. It was almost first bell and they needed to head back to the keep. Just before they left, the Hamae touched Samar’s hand and made him linger for a second while Jeevan convinced Dirth to release to soup bone the dog was mouthing on.

“I know it’s hard, young man, to see him like this.” She murmured quietly. “My door isn’t just open to the women of this keep. Stop by after evening bell.”

“Thank you, _Hamae_.” Samar touched his forehead with a finger, a sign of respect, and then went trotting after his brother and the hound.

The morning bell tolled just as they were getting back to the workshop, and Jeevan froze up for some reason next to his work table, the basket sitting on the counter and their shoes still damp from the walk. His fire was burning, his cauldron was bubbling, his ledger was open, but he was acting odd. He took a step to Samar then stopped, went back, reached for his ledger but stopped again. He put his arms straight at his sides and didn’t do anything for a good minute. What the hell?

Finally, he blurted out: “It is important that you speak with Seneschal Garevel, however it is mandatory that I resume my duties in the workshop.” O…kay?

“I can find it again on my own, I think. What’s wrong?” Jeevan spat his answer out in a stream of constant words:

“As I am your contact within the Vigil it is reasonable to assume my presence would lend both weight and credence to your request for work. However, I am mandated by my contract to remain at work here in the shop.”

“It’s nothing to get worked up about, I’ve asked for jobs before-”

And then Jeevan started going _fast,_ like rope spitting over the deck after a catch no one had thought to tie down.

“Your skills are not suited to life within a landlocked fortress and it is doubtful that without recommendation from one already employed within the keep that you will be considered for any temporary or labouring positions within the fortress. Although my contract is not of the usual nature for Vigil’s Keep my presence-” _Woah-_

“You’re getting knots in your rigging and need to calm down a little.” Before he chewed his tongue away trying to get as many words out as possible.

“I am calm, and it is important that-”

“ _Stop._ ” Samar got right over to him and put both hands down firm on his brother’s shoulders. When he opened his mouth to motor away at him again, Samar gave him a shake. “Stop. Your day started all of five minutes ago. Either stay here and make the stuff in your book, or come with me and watch me talk to the Seneschal. But cut it out with this worrying before I send you back to the midwife.”

“I am not worrying. I am not capable of experiencing anxiety.”

“Then quit spitting nonsense at me. Here or with the Seneschal? Make a choice.”

“I am unable to distinguish which option is of a higher priority.” What the hell was that supposed to mean?

“What do you think’ll happen if you don’t come with me?”

“The possibility of you being granted a working position within the Vigil is reduced.” Samar’s heart squeezed a little. That almost sounded like-

“Is that a good or bad thing?”

“If you are not granted employment then you will be required to return to Amaranthine City for the duration of your ship’s maintenance and repair.” He said it all in a flat voice, with his eyes only half open, and that brand shimmering in the middle of his forehead. “As I am not capable of easy travel to and from the city, it is unlikely that we will meet again before your departure. Therefore, it is preferable for you to remain here, but I am mandated by my contract to-” _He wanted Samar to stay._

That stupid and roundabout way of Jeevan saying what he wanted stuck a warm dart right in Samar’s chest. He wanted him to stay. For a whole two months, he wanted him here and for them to be around each other. The Chantry had fucked him up in so many ways but when he saw his family again he wanted Samar to stay and that was enough. He had his pay from Wycome and Rivain. If Samar couldn’t get a job proper with the Seneschal then by Andraste’s Full Bosom he’d just pay his way into a warm stable or small inn room until the Lady Freeborn was ready. He’d just have to deal with the fall-out of that decision when he got back to Gwaren. Maybe he’d just tell Ariyah he’d gambled it all away.

Right now what mattered was he hugged his brother. He hugged him good and strong and tight with both arms, and it shut up the babble of words. Jeevan wanted him to stay; he was staying.

“Captain can tell you himself to get back to work if he doesn’t want you in his cabin for a chat. C’mon, Jeevan, we’re gonna go see the Seneschal.”

They went. It required a lot of physical pulling and prodding on Samar’s end to get his brother to come, but once they were at the Seneschal’s office Jeevan stopped resisting and just went along with it.

Seneschal Garevel was a few good years older than Samar himself, but he carried himself like a professional who knew what his job required and how to do it right. Knife-ear or not, Samar knew his own profession just as well. This was the sort of Captain to watch out for and try to get on the good side of right away.

The Seneschal didn’t hate elves: that was apparent from the get-go when he looked at Samar with quiet confusion and then Jeevan with open recognition. Right, the Arl was an elf. _Right_.

Introductions were made in Jeevan’s stilted way, the Seneschal brought them immediately to the point and Samar did the rest of the talking. He laid it all out: he could read and he could write and he could do his numbers. He was a Boatswain for a good company and managed both cargo and men. His ship had been shattered on the breaker in Amaranthine City and until the hold was repaired and the water pumped out, he wanted to be useful while also staying close to his brother.

It was all on Garevel after that. Samar braced when he saw the clouds going dark in the sky.

“Respectfully,” Seneschal Garevel said in an even voice. “I am not of the business of a dockyard, a warehouse, or a company, Ser Boatswain. This is a fortress with no meaningful water access save our well and cisterns, and it has no use of a sailor.” _Fuck_. The Seneschal dipped his pen into the ink on his desk to refill it before resuming his writing on the great book spread across his desk. He continued speaking as he wrote.

“Considerations for the families of Grey Wardens are often made, but your brother is no such thing.” No, he was a tranquil apothecary, not a Blight warrior… “You are free as any man to acquire odd jobs about the keep for whatever payment is available, such as those posted to the chanter’s board, and I leave it to our brother’s discretion if he will permit you to share his living quarters for the duration of your stay. _That being said…_ ”

“Ser?”

The Seneschal stopped scribbling in his book. He looked up at Samar with a stern and measuring gaze, then flipped his pen in his hand and thumped the end on his desk. Oh, oh he was thinking something. He wasn’t happy about it, but it wasn’t quite at the point of pulling teeth either.

“I am not often of a mind to take a tradesman from his trade, Ser Boatswain.” He was polite about giving Samar his title, it was more than he got in some ports along the Amaranthine coast. “But given the circumstances of the city harbour, the time of year, and the current mood of the castle…” Samar made sure, hands behind his back, to lean in just so to hear the rest of this. The Seneschal gave Jeevan a long look, then regarded Samar again and spoke bluntly.

“Concerns have recently been brought to my attention over your brother’s safety and well-being within Vigil’s Keep. As his patron has been dispatched to the Anderfels, I had intended to post a member of the Silver Order near to his workshop to ensure no further incidents occurred, but your presence may prove a more pleasing alternative.” Samar had to work hard not to whip his head around at his brother. What the fuck kind of _incident_ required an armed guard follow an elf around the keep for protection?

“If Master Ansera will consent to shared accommodations,” Garevel continued, “And you will agree to remain available and keep an eye on him, assisting with tasks throughout the day and such, then I can arrange to have the Quartermaster see to your immediate needs. The position offers no pay, but room and board will be available until your ship is repaired and you are able to resume your proper trade.” Sounded good to him!

“Done and done, ser.” Samar agreed, grinning wide and ready to kiss his hands in Andraste’s praise. When he chanced a look at Jeevan, his blank face hadn’t changed at all and he was just standing there with his arms hanging at his sides. Discouraging, but oh well. “Before we leave you to your work, Seneschal, might I know what I’m supposed to be keeping an eye out for?” Garevel was spinning that heavy pen of his over his knuckles, but with a nod he answered.

“I am in the midst of a small tiff with the Revered Mother of Vigil’s Keep over the indignity shown to your brother which led to him becoming so ill prior to your arrival. As he is a former Ward of the Chantry, it only seems prudent on my part to provide him with a buffer until matters are resolved.” This was the same Chantry that had beaten his own name off of him as a boy. Same colours, different crew.

“Aye, ser. I’ll not go _fighting_ anyone, but I’ll keep my eyes on those choppy waters.” And get fed for it too. Sitting all day in Jeevan’s shop wasn’t the most exciting shore leave, but it was better than mucking stables or being stranded _anywhere_ near Orlais.

“Samar Ashera, was it?” The Seneschal said, immediately pushing his book and sweeping a sheet of parchment out in front of him. His pen scrawled and dipped across the surface and Samar said _‘Yes ser’_ at all the right times. “Compounder Ansera and I may have to meet in the coming days, but for now… Present this to Quartermaster Felsi at noon bell to receive your meal for the hour. You may both return to work.” Samar took the page with its ink still glistening, and was careful not to fold it and smear his very literal meal-ticket.

“Yes, Seneschal.”

“Thank you, ser.”

Garevel gave them a quick wave off, and the pair of elves got out of the man’s office.

 


	15. To Struggle

 

There was one objective flaw in Samar’s decision and ability to remain in Vigil’s Keep. The possibility of it had not occurred to Jylan prior to his brother’s assignment by the Seneschal. After three days of close and pleasant contact with his sibling Jylan became aware of it in a most obtuse and disagreeable manner. He had begun to struggle. Tranquil were not meant to struggle, it was a drain on their mental ability and physical well-being, but that was what had started.

“Hey, if I’m cramping you in bed then we can find me a cot.” They awoke before dawn, they moved through the routine of exercise, dressing, and prepping the workshop. They gathered their breakfast and returned to the workshop to eat, and that was when Samar made his comment. It was a response to Jylan’s struggle. “You, like, barely slept last night and that’s probably my fault.”

“It was not your fault, but you are correct: I did not sleep uninterrupted last night.” Causing the sense of fatigue in his limbs this morning, but he would recover from it after the morning deliveries and commencement of work. Samar smiled at him and attempted to wordlessly communicate that he was both sorry for the poor night and seeking to remain on agreeable terms with Jylan. Neither point was necessary.

“Okay, so later today I’ll go snuff around for some blankets and rushes and set myself up on the floor.”

“That is not necessary.”

“It’s _your_ _bed_.” His brother incorrectly construed his meaning, leaning on the worktable with his elbows and no longer reading from the ledger to ensure the mornings’ deliveries would be packed up smoothly. “If we get desperate I can nail a sheet up to the walls and act like I’m back at sea.”

“It is unwise to assume that nails would penetrate a stone wall with sufficient strength to bear your weight.”

“I’m not fat, I’m just muscle-y.” That was not Jylan’s intended meaning. That was not the point he had attempted to make. This conversation was not progressing as it should have. A headache was beginning to form in the space between his eyes but below the brand, a physiological response to the struggle that Jylan inadvertently triggered by failing to communicate clearly. He closed his eyes.

Samar stood and his footsteps moved around the table to stand beside him. He felt his brother touch his arm with one hand, and then reach across his back to rub over his shoulders and down in a wide circle. The contact was pleasing. The concern was clearly conveyed. His headache increased in intensity.

“Don’t go getting sick again…”

“My condition is unrelated to the fever.”

“How about you sit down just in case?” He was concerned. He was displaying kindness. He was offering support with the intention of easing suffering and reinforcing a bond of love.

The pain spiked laterally from his forehead back through his skull, ripping out from the base of his neck. His eyes squeezed shut and his face twisted, mouth open, and he felt his head fall with his shoulders tensely hiked up in response to the negative stimulation. It hurt very much.

“Woah.” A stool was pushed against the back of his thighs and he was moved to sit on it. Samar’s presence remained close at his side, hands on his back and holding his arm to ensure he remained stable. His white hood was pulled down, but his eyes remained shut. “Talk to me.”

Jylan brought both hands to the table and laid his palms down flat over the grain. There were hammer-marks on this side of the workspace and he found one of the rounded indents with the pad of his thumb. The wood was cool and deeply grained.

“Jeevan? What’s hurting you?”

“I have inadvertently triggered a state known among the Tranquil as a _struggle_. It will pass.”

“How do I help?”

“It is easier to control when in the company of other Tranquil or alone.” To be alone would reduce the amount of stimulation and that absence would permit him to examine himself and his mental state, reorganizing the intrusive thoughts and managing their impact on his physical self. But Samar would worry if- “This is an infrequent condition, brother, and does not arise often or remain for very long. I am tranquil and am experienced with the process.”

“The process of _what?_ ” Samar asked him. He was bent down to remain close to Jylan, his arms extended now to wrap around his back and clasp his far shoulder, the other arm wound across his chest and holding around his ribs. Samar was seeking to provide physical comfort and emotional support and was only succeeding in the former. But the latter _should_ have-

“I am tranquil.” There was no emotional support required for one who did not have any emotional capacity or capability.

“Jeevan-” He would not leave until he had achieved a state of understanding over Jylan’s condition or was otherwise forced to depart and Jylan did not consider himself capable of that kind of physical altercation at present.

“As a sailor, Samar, can you swim?” He asked his brother.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I am attempting to contextualize my situation in a manner that you will more easily grasp.” His head hurt. His skull was radiating pain. As an incidental tangent he remembered the tales of the Tranquil who had been captured and sacrificed; their hair and faces peeled from their skulls to form bizarre objects known as the Oculara. The tangent and its content did not inspire disgust or fear in him, but it _should ha- “_ The metaphor requires certain experiences on your part, such as the ability to tread water or to swim. Are you able to swim?”

Samar released his shoulder and resumed rubbing his back.

“Yes, I can.” His voice was calm. It held an echo of fear. That fear _should have-_

“I assume the sails of a ship are made of heavy canvas, is this correct?” His head was hurting.

“Cotton and linen, yeah. Cotton’s lighter, but linen’s better in bad weather. Where’re you going with this?”

“Tranquility is the sensation of water closing over your head.” He kept his eyes closed, was aware of his shoulders refusing to ease down despite the warm pass of his brother’s hand across his back. “It is cold and deafening, it closes off senses you are accustomed to. The term _Tranquility_ was chosen for the state of hovering in that water, beneath the surface, beyond the motivation to change or alter the mind’s position. _Struggle_ is the moment when the mind remembers what is missing.”

“Tranquility is that pause before you drown when it all seems okay?” Jylan opened his eyes. The firelight splashed across the room was blurred, his brother’s face was very close to his and much of it was cast in shadows. His skull throbbed.

“Struggle is the moment when a drowning man remembers that he could once swim.” His voice felt rough in his throat and sounded broken in his ears. He was too tense. It was difficult to breathe.

“Why did you ask about sails?”

“Because the canvas is wet and it is heavy and it is spread across the surface of the water so the swimmer cannot rise.” It was the brand on his forehead and the bead of lyrium embedded in his skull. “The drowning know that there is air but they are sucked and pushed back down by the canvas before they can take a breath. The Tranquil know we should feel happiness, or grief, or anger, but are left with only absence. The very fact that the absence itself does not inspire outrage or fear begins a cycle of intense, futile struggle with negative physiological impacts. My head hurts and my chest is tight. My heart may begin to beat rapidly.”

He was pulled to his feet and then held very, very tightly… Samar’s hugs were generally very satisfying, Jylan had encountered this trend at multiple points over the preceding days. His brother was strong and very warm. They were of comparable height to one another and Samar had set aside his leather armour in favour of borrowed wool clothes and other soft layers from his own belongings, ensuring that there were no hard or edged pieces on his body when embracing. As they were family, Samar had explained only once to him that he felt no hesitation to display necessary affection in this way.

Jylan was not grateful. He should have been. Logically, emotionally. But he could not be grateful because he was tranquil. He should have desired this commitment from his brother, but he did not. He should have, but he did not. He was tranquil. That he could not return such affection in a genuine manner should have inspired distress and pain in him. He was tranquil and thus felt no such affliction. He did not love his brother, but he _should have_.

He closed his eyes and rested his chin and mouth on his brother’s shoulder. His arms linked around Samar’s waist to return the embrace and express the received and accepted nature of the gesture. His head hurt very much.

“It will pass.” He repeated this statement to ensure his brother understood the temporary nature of the affliction. Light was beginning to seep through the workshop window. “This morning’s deliveries must be completed.”

“I’ll do them.” Samar hushed him and rubbed his back. It was pleasing. The contact permitted him to breathe with greater ease again. “I know your run, it’ll be fine. You just stay right here with me for a few more minutes.” And accept continued physical comfort while making a controlled effort to restore his internal sense of balance. Jylan closed his eyes again and found a more comfortable way to hold his head. Samar’s skin was warm and smelled of deep, heavy spice.

He was tranquil, his struggle was futile. The expectation of emotion was a needless stress upon him that would yield no results nor positive impact upon his routine and duties. He had experienced a previous struggle during his transition from Amaranthine City to Vigil’s Keep, partially triggered by his reunion with Connor, a situation which should have inspired great joy and excitement but had not. Another episode had occurred at the end of the war against Redcliffe when Connor had been physically reduced to a near-death state, a situation which had progressed for many months and should have caused great feelings of fear and anger, but had not. He was tranquil. Acute awareness of his condition was not necessary. He was tranquil.

He would maintain his routine until the struggle passed. It would pass, it had no alternative: he was tranquil, and would remain so for the rest of his life. He was tranquil. This was fact. He was tranquil. He was not meant to experience emotion. He maintained his ability to choose and discriminate between different options, but he did not have emotions, and he was not meant to. He was tranquil.

Samar kissed his cheek again, rough and loving, and the headache began to ease. Jylan did not love his brother because he was tranquil. He was not indifferent towards his brother because he consciously chose to grant him a higher priority and level of attention than other individuals encountered throughout the day. He did not love his brother because he was not capable of experiencing love, he was tranquil.

He was tranquil, and it was nearly first bell.

“You may perform the deliveries now.” His brother squeezed him very tightly for a few seconds, and then began to release him. His hands were affectionate and pleasing as they brushed back over Jylan’s hair and were careful not to fold or push down on his ears. His brother was emotionally distressed, but when he kissed Jylan again it was to the left of the brand: he did not consider touching the mark to be a sign of affection.

“Make some of that tea the midwife wanted you to keep drinking. I’ll be back with Dirth quick as I can.” The tea was an appropriate suggestion as the elfroot would have a positive effect on his headache. He nodded as acknowledgment. “And finish your breakfast.” The bread was only half-eaten on the table. Samar moved away from him and began putting the final items into the basket, taking up the small leather folio with the names and requisitions copied into it. He made it all the way to the door before grasping the jamb and leaning back into the workshop to point at Jylan directly. “And don’t let anyone take the piss out of you while I’m gone! Just- _take it easy_.”

Jylan nodded again and his brother departed. As it was not yet first bell, Jylan was not required to begin working on requisitions just yet.

He brewed the elfroot tea specified by Mistress Valora and continued to manage himself. When he had mentally arranged the points of greatest difficulty for himself, he spoke them aloud in their correct form so as to reinforce his own understanding. There was no need to struggle. There was nothing to reach for. Nothing his mind had tricked itself into believing was necessary, because the absence was the purpose and effect of his tranquility.

“I do not miss Connor because I am tranquil. I am not meant to long for others.”

“I do not love Samar because I am tranquil. I am not meant to bond with others.”

“I do not love Valora because I am tranquil. I am not meant to bond with others.”

“I do not love An’eth because I am tranquil. I am not meant to be with others.”

“I do not pity Dirthamen because I am tranquil. I am not meant to care for others.”

“I am not angry towards Seamstress Correlay because I am tranquil. I am not meant to conflict with others.”

“I do not admire or fear Arl Surana because I am tranquil. I am not meant to be inspired or intimidated by others.”

“Nothing is wrong with me; I am tranquil. I am as I am as I ever will be.”

His head no longer ached. He drank the tea. He heard the bell toll. He was tranquil and he began his work. Work was useful and offered a contribution that could be weighed, measured, quantified, and distributed throughout the keep. Work was proof of skill and ability. Work was justification for well-being and good health.

He was working when An’eth came to visit him.

“Is your brother not here?” She asked after obtaining his attention. He had finished stripping elfroot stalks and separating a bushel of them into component pieces. The act had taken up much of his time, but would satisfy multiple orders.

“He will return soon, as he is performing this morning’s deliveries in my stead.” As Samar was not dressed in a set of Jylan’s white and blue formari robes, it was unlikely to assume that he would attempt to prank or startle any of the Vigil’s denizens. “Did you require his attention, An’eth?”

“No. I mean- he’s quite nice. I’m glad he’s staying with you.” She entered the workshop comfortably dressed down in warm Dalish fabrics and pleated boots. She did not appear to be in a state of high distress this morning, a pleasing alternative to their previous two encounters. “I know you’re working right now, but I wanted to apologize for the last time we spoke.”

“You were unwell, but caused no inconvenience.” He told her. The comment was not appropriate, but he was not meant to converse easily with others. “If you have recovered then it is good. If not, I may prescribe a calming tea to aid you in the effort.”

“No, I’m okay.” She approached him and he set down the cleaver that he had used to chop elfroot stalks. She stood close to him and let one hand up to tangle through the ends of her bright red hair, knocking one of the thin braids woven from her temple with the nervous gesture. “I just wanted to check on you. I didn’t… I probably made you really uncomfortable with what I said, and I’m sorry.”

“I was not made uncomfortable.” She took a breath at his comment and her cheeks began to turn pink. He was not certain if this signalled embarrassment or flattery. “Have you resolved the matter of your affections?” She frowned deeply at this question, skewing the lines of her blood writing.

“I care for you. _Deeply_. As far as I’m concerned there’s nothing to resolve.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“ _Why?_ ” She made a challenge to him and he was uncertain of how to respond to it. The challenge gave her resolve, made her set her face with determination that was more in line with her proper personality. “You have friends, and you have family again: I _know_ you can cherish others so why does how I feel about you have to be _sad_ or _unfortunate_? You can reject me, Jylan, but don’t _pity_ me.”

“It is not my intention to provoke a negative reaction from you, An’eth. I merely advise caution.”

“ _Why?_ ” She repeated, in a louder tone this time.

“Because I am fundamentally unclear as to the purpose of your declaration beyond an attempt to relieve yourself of such affections.” He answered her directly as such a method seemed to be the most effective at communicating himself properly. “Unless your intentions are purely to pursue a physical engagement with me then I do not understand your insistence that your feelings are anything but burdensome. I am a poor choice of companion. I have made no strides to present myself as a possible suitor to anyone.” For many reasons, but the most prominent were as followed:

“I am tranquil and as such emotionally vacant and without the ability to provide the personal support or affection of a loving partner.” He stated his reasons to her clearly, facing her directly. His hands were at rest at his sides and his voice was no different from any other discussion held within these walls. “While I am able to form conscious commitments and to make choices based on the immediate needs of those around me, I am not given to perform compulsive acts of affection or to act on motivations otherwise inspired by love. While I am physically healthy and capable, An’eth, it would be a mistake to assume intimacy would follow in a natural or convincing manner. There exists no quantifiable reason for which you would select me over-”

She reached up, grabbed his head, and kissed him. This was not the assumed or expected course of action.

“-any other better qualified male el-” he attempted to speak around her mouth, words slurred by her lips, but her grip on him tightened and her arms pulled with greater strength than anticipated. She licked at his teeth and lips and then covered his next breath with her mouth again. He stopped talking. She stopped pulling. The less he resisted the less she forced the matter.

The sensations swimming around his mouth were jarring and abruptly familiar. It did not have to be unpleasant. Her breaths were clean and sweet, her lips were cool and her tongue was soft. If his lips followed hers then the sensation would spread in a soothing manner across his jaw and down. She slid her thumb down his cheek to his chin and kissed again, just her lips pushing up into his and her hands resting flat over his chest.

“…Because I love you,” she whispered to him, lips still very close to his and their noses brushing. He was uncertain how she would react if he moved away from her so he did not make the attempt. “That is _my_ quantifiable reason, Jylan. I’m not asking you to change, I’m not telling you to give me more than you’re capable of, and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me either. But _I love you_. I’m a Grey Warden and my life can change at any moment, _Vhenan_ , I wasn’t going to let it happen without kissing you first…” She looked down and rested her forehead to his collarbone, breathing soft and slowly against him. His wrist and curled fingers found her waist just to brace and ensure that she would not begin to push him. They did not embrace, and with a deep breath she stood straight again and looked at him with a tired and deeply serious expression.

“If you don’t want this then tell me,” she explained softly. “You have the right to say no, Jylan, but please don’t just throw ‘ _because I’m tranquil_ ’ at me like that somehow means you don’t deserve love.” She took his hands in both of hers, ignoring that his gloves were damp with elfroot juice. “I’m not asking you to pretend I’m suddenly your whole world or telling you I want flowers and gifts and poetry- I mean it would be _nice_ but I’m not _stupid_ either. I- I’m not going to send you into the bush to hunt a bear for me, I’m not asking you to love me. I’m asking you to let me _love you_.”

She let go of one hand and lifted it to his face, curling her fingers so she could brush them gently down his cheek. This was a matter of great personal importance to her.

“If you don’t want this, then we go back to being friends. If it’s wrong to you, then… then nothing changes and we just stay close, no more talk of love. But don’t just say _‘because I’m tranquil_ ’, Jylan, because you’re _so much more than that…”_

He neither desired nor was repulsed by the idea. He was uncertain of the form the relationship she asked for would take, but had already stated that he was capable of committed decisions. This would, arguably, constitute little to no change in his typical interactions with other people around the Vigil save An’eth herself. If he consented to the arrangement then it would only be reasonable to expect it to remain a temporary one as An’eth would doubtless grow frustrated or pained by his lack of emotional response to her. Causing her pain in the long-term was not an appealing option. However, there existed a greater chance that if she was given the chance to experience his shortcomings over a period of days or weeks then it would prove less painful than outright refusal to participate in the idea.

If a mutual understanding of incompatibility could be established gradually rather than highlighted as a point of contention between them, then that was indeed the most agreeable option. The additional benefit of permitting romantic attraction to run a short course and then cool was also preferable to allowing her feelings to engross themselves in the manner of unrequited love.

Bearing all of this in mind, he thus consented to her idea.

“It has not been my intention to cause you undue distress and pain on my account, An’eth.” As she was still holding one of his hands Jylan engaged with her there, establishing a modest grip on her to signal his heightened attention. “If these negative bouts may be addressed by a conscious shift in our relationship towards a more exclusive bond, then I will begin the effort to make what necessary changes I am capable of. I consider you a friend, An’eth, it would be disrespectful of me to ignore your needs when they do not conflict with my own.”

“You- you’re saying yes?” She was holding his hand and resting her other palm to his chest again, fingertips close to the collar of his robe.

“Was my agreement not your primary goal in making the request?”

“Yes- but I…” Her staring melted into a smile that grew into a grin, her eyes overwhelmed with things unsaid and difficult for him to understand. She pursed her lips and took a catching breath, then lifted herself onto her toes and traded his hand for the ability to twist her arm up around his neck and shoulder, cradling his face with her free hand and pressing her forehead to his cheek and jaw. An’eth pulled herself up close to him and Jylan placed an arm around her waist to ensure she remained steady. That it was an intimate gesture on his part did not escape his own awareness, but it was acceptably so.

“ _Thank you…_ ” She spoke close to his throat and there was an undeniable warmth left by her words. She kissed his cheek and it was not the same as when Samar had performed the same gesture. It was more carefully done, and lingered for longer.

“I must return to work, An’eth.” He told her, his interest now briefly turned to the fact that Samar had not yet returned from the delivery run. “This discussion was important, but I must continue preparing the requisitions ordered yesterday.” She began to nod before he finished speaking, but did not interrupt him as she settled herself properly on her feet again.

“I know, I know- you’re right. Maybe- the weather isn’t so bad today. Can you come to the gardens after evening bell? I won’t keep you from visiting with your brother, Jylan, but I’m expecting my next orders from the Warden Commander any day now. Will you be there, tonight?” The gardens were a public space along the south side of the keep, established primarily for the mages as a meditation area and for the Dalish inhabitants of Vigil’s Keep as a quiet place to dedicate time to their gods. Connor had built them. Jylan nodded to answer her request. It made her smile and grin at him again in delight.

“The last thing I’ll ask you then, before I let you get back to work.” She reigned in her smiles and he was not certain why that was necessary, her hands trailing down his arms before she ceased to touch him. “Please- don’t tell the other Wardens. I- I _know_ that sounds strange, but just for now. Please don’t tell them about us. Or anyone else.”

“I do not understand,” he told her. “Do you consider this arrangement illicit, or in some manner shameful?” If so then he did not understand her great investment in establishing it.

“No! Creators, no. Jylan, I’ll explain it when I can, but not right now.” She quickly took his hands again, squeezing them and looking at him with great emotion across her face. Samar entered the doorway. “ _You_ need to work and I need to be in the training yard. Meet me tonight-” Samar immediately turned away into the hall.

His brother either interpreted the situation as intensely personal and had no wish to intrude, or as illicit and held no desire to label himself as culpable. Jylan was incapable of discriminating between the two possibilities. He did not understand the request for secrecy. He did not give her a verbal response.

She kissed his hands and departed. It was apparent even to him that crucial information had been left unspoken. He did not know if any expectation of further explanation tonight in the gardens would be worthwhile.

Samar returned to the workshop with Dirthamen. The hound barked loudly, shook his back-end with great excitement, and frolicked towards Jylan for an over-enthusiastic greeting which bordered intensely on the unnecessary. Jylan acknowledged the dog in order to calm it, and then addressed the peculiar stare Samar was directing towards him by meeting it. He was uncertain of what else to do.

“ _So_ …” He did not know what he was expected to say. “You… and the _redheaded Warden?_ ” Samar was requesting confirmation.

“It is not an ideal arrangement; Tranquil do not make suitable partners. But she is a friend and she is insistent.” He was required to return to work but this exchange, much like his meeting with An’eth, was one he considered a priority. Samar wheeled his hands over each other like he was spinning something backwards, a nervous gesture which expressed some of his anxiety.

“Okay, so I’m not wrong for thinking it’s weird that you’re planning late-night rendezvous with a pretty lady then?”

“Evening bell is not technically late at night, but no. You are no wrong for noting the peculiarity itself.”

“Alright, _that’s it._ ” Samar made a strange gesture like he meant to bang his fist on the table while standing so far away from it. He turned to door and closed it, then came back to Jylan and spoke in a strangely deep voice, swinging his hand and pointing to the ceiling with it. “As your brother- as your _eldest brother_ -” he was staring at Jylan’s feet. “-and either the head of this family or second to Rian, _who is also_ your brother, Jeevan.” He was not speaking sensibly. He looked at him directly, but did not make any gains in clarity. “Before you meet with this girl tonight- have you ever?”

“I do not understand the question.”

“You,” Samar used both hands and gestured up and down to all of Jylan. “Have _you_ ever? With a girl? With _anyone?_ Doesn’t matter, just- have you? I’m your brother I need to know these things sometimes.”

“Samar, I cannot answer a question you have not asked.”

“ _Sex, Jeevan! Sex!”_ That made far more sense.

“Yes.”

“ _Really?_ I mean-” Samar winced at his own statement, waving his hands through the air. “Forget I said that. But was it before or after…” he waved his hand over his own face several times. “-the Rite?” That was not an appropriate topic of discussion. However, considering Samar’s current disposition Jylan correctly inferred that a bare and factual answer would suffice.

“Both.”

“Oh, so you know what you’re doing then.” His brother’s immediate levels of stress dissipated with the answer, and he offered no follow-up questions. “That is _all_ I needed to know. Unless you wanna _talk_ about it, in which case I’m here for that, of course. I mean, there’s no way you would know this but _Rian_ and women? Rian and _anyone?_ If you showed him boobs he’d probably just ask what was wrong with her shirt or if she needed to borrow his. Kinda sad- but _actually_ very funny.”

“I must resume my duties now,” Jylan explained and turned back to the elfroot spread across the table. Before reaching for the cleaver to resume the work itself, he spoke again. “Tell me of Rian.”

Samar gave a big grin, opened the workshop door and then sank down into the hard wooden chair where he usually sat. He threaded his fingers together behind his head, and crossed his ankles with both legs sticking out in the air, pretending there was a stool or ottoman for him to rest them on. He gave a restful sigh as Jylan picked up the cleaver.

“ _Ahh, Rian._ For starters, _much_ better man than I am- and I don’t think too badly of myself either! Family first, second and third. Let’s see now…”

The morning proceeded in a more comfortable fashion from there.

At midday, without explanation or warning, Jylan was summoned to see the Arl.

 


	16. He Means It When He Says

 

“Ah, Compounder Ansera. So pleased you could join me today.”

It was not considered usual for the Warden Commander to address or summon Jylan directly. It was not considered typical of him to give attention to the Tranquil in general, beyond his obligatory correspondence with the Formari Guildmaster. Archmage Surana did not like the Tranquil and his position on the matter had been clearly explained multiple times in the manner of him looking at Guildmaster Owain or Jylan himself and plainly telling them: _“I don’t like Tranquil_ ”.

Jylan had been tolerated during the war with Redcliffe. Jylan’s employment within the Vigil hinged upon that tolerance. What Velanna or Connor would dismiss as the Commander’s grandstanding or crabby dismissal when he uttered threats against Jylan’s position, Jylan himself knew better. The Arl would dismiss him if given the opportunity. The Arl did not like Tranquil.

“How may I be of service, your grace?”

“Follow me.”

Jylan had come to the Warden Commander’s apartments as instructed by the Warden who had fetched him from the workshop. Samar had accompanied him but lingered outside the apartment doors as Jylan entered, and now the Warden Commander himself turned and led him further through the suite than he had ever previously ventured. This was his first time in the Commander’s salon, and now his first time moving from the warmly lit chamber into a dim but finely decorated corridor.

From here they entered a windowless room holding many shelves, counters, and a wide table. Many tools of magical and alchemical properties were scattered about under and over many sheets and scraps of paper, magical equations interspersed with reagents of several kinds. The most striking item in the room was a tall twelve-foot mirror with a pointed top and swirling gold casement trailing down its sides. The mirror held no reflection, it was clearly magical in nature, and carried an undeniable hum that vibrated in its corner of the chamber. To be drawn too close to the object would be unfortunate.

“I had not known that the Tranquil brought to Vigil’s Keep was considered to be one of your guild’s most _affluent_ _members_.” The Commander’s voice was conversational and light as he entered the laboratory ahead of Jylan, trailing his fingertips over the table and igniting several mage-fire lamps as he passed them. He moved further into the laboratory and turned to Jylan again when he was close to the looming presence of the mirror, implying from his position that Jylan was not to approach the object. This was a good decision. “Were you aware of this distinction, Compounder?”

“Not explicitly, your grace.”

“But the implication of it?” The Commander pressed. “It’s not just any Tranquil who can forward amendments to the guild with the same diligence you have.” He did not understand if this was a compliment or an accusation. Jylan was aware of how unwise it was to request clarification on such matters from the Warden Commander.

“Thank you, your grace.” He was not reprimanded for his statement. It had been a compliment. “My assignment to Vigil’s Keep has offered a new and different perspective on the functions and abilities of the Guildsmen in a world without the Circles of Magi. As I have not kept this perspective secret, it is possible that the affluence you speak of was generated from those efforts.” Surana was quiet for a few moments.

The commander was dressed as an Archmage today, very typical of him. A long robe of deep emerald fabric was open and draped from his shoulders, revealing a fine set of shirt, vest, and trousers underneath it and done in a dark neutral pallet. He bore no staff with him, but a long silverite dagger hung at his belt within the robe, and a small tome of magical properties was hanging from the garment itself. When he stood at rest, his scarred fingers stayed atop the spine of the book.

“What was it that prompted you to write to Owain about these matters?” Surana asked him. “I reviewed them, briefly, earlier in the week when I visited the city. Some are just formalities but others like pay and leisure are quite revolutionary for the Tranquil. Don’t mistake me, Compounder, I signed off on the changes and all that remains is for your guild members to ratify the amendments themselves, but you’ve piqued my curiosity just the same.” While the question came with much exposition the Commander’s emotional concerns were not necessary. There was no justification required.

“Our Guild has no reasonable expectation to prosper beyond the end of this Age, your grace.” He folded his hands in front of him as he understood to be polite when speaking to a superior beyond the Circles. When he spoke Jylan looked to the Commander’s chest; to the gold lines woven through his robe; to the tome at his belt: as had been proper within the Circles. “Therefore while the physical needs of the guildmembers must be invested in as-per the purchase of several buildings adjoined with the original hall, there is no intense burden to prepare for a second or third generation of Guildsmen to find their way to Amaranthine. When the current Guildsmen die, the guild will close.”

“And whatever wealth you’ve amassed until that point will either go to the Arling or the city.” Jylan nodded when the Warden Commander expressed his understanding of the situation. “Might as well spend a little bit of it on yourselves first. But are you so sure about your guild’s fate?”

“Yes. With the dissolution of the Circles, the College of Enchanters’ protection of unskilled magi, Divine Victoria’s condemnation of the Rite of Tranquility, and the Seekers of Truth’s disavowal of the ritual, we are expected to be the final full generation of cultured Tranquil. In decades to come other mages will be cut off from the Fade, this is certain, but it will not occur in the same numbers as was once permitted by the Circles. Considering the geographical scope of Thedas and the inherent dangers of solitary travel, most especially in the case of a young Tranquil engaged in struggle, it is unlikely that any Tranquil save those afflicted here in Amaranthine or of significant family means will journey to a distant guild hall to replenish our numbers.”

The Warden Commander lifted his hand from the tome at his belt, gestured with his open palm for Jylan to be quiet.

“You said two strange things right there: cultured tranquil, and engaged in struggle?”

“Forgive me, Archmage, as I spoke carelessly.” He rambled off the statement before proceeding smoothly into the requested answer. “ _Tranquil Culture_ is a term for the mutual understanding and shared experiences of those subjected to the Rite of Tranquility within the Circles of Magi.”

“Tranquil _what?_ ” Before the Archmage could grow enraged at him, Jylan amended himself:

“It is not my intent to imply that the Formari have a sense of community or that we consider ourselves as objectively nuanced or complex as the culture of Circle Mages in general.” As to suggest as much would be perceived as an insult and Jylan’s dismissal from Kinloch hold for offending the Warden Commander would prove deeply unfortunate for his family in Gwaren. “But there is significant overlap between the experiences of a Formari in Starkhaven to the ones from Montsimmard, or Ferelden, or the White Spire.”

He did not look at the Archmage’s face. He did not gauge his expression. He kept his eyes on the silver buttons of the open robe and did not waver.

“No more Circle Formari, fine. I understand that much. Now explain what it is the _Tranquil_ struggle with.”

“Struggle is merely a term shared among the guildsmen to describe a state of heightened awareness. It is unpleasant, and yields negative physiological effects on us, but grows steadily less common and of a shorter duration the longer one is tranquil.” To grant some relevance to this information as it was shared, Jylan deemed it appropriate to do something he had not previously attempted in his few limited interactions with the Warden Commander: he spoke of their Circle. “Within Kinloch Hold, as your grace may recall, Apprentices selected for the Rite of Tranquility often disappeared for a period of three days to a week before reappearing within the tower’s public areas. Much of that time was spent in the company of one or two senior formari, who aided the new one in managing the struggle for the first time.” Surana folded his arms. Jylan did not look at his face.

“I do remember that.” His voice was stiff; he was not pleased but did not usher Jylan to silence.

“Since the dissolution of the Circles it has been largely assumed that most mages wrongly or accidentally subjected to the Rite have perished for this lack of support. Therefore, the guild is not likely to survive beyond the next thirty or forty years at most.” His statement brought the discussion full circle. He fell silent.

That silence stretched. The Warden Commander took a sharp breath, turned toward the table, took a moment to rub his face and re-establish himself. Jylan did not speak. It was possible that this would conclude their short meeting today.

“Why do I let you people drag me down tangents like that?” The Archmage asked but he did not speak clearly or with a sense of directness. Jylan did not answer. “It’s always the most miserable topics… Compounder Ansera, I’m going to change the subject.”

Jylan did not speak. His hands remained folded in front of him, elbows bent, eyes cast down to the appropriate level. The Archmage made a frustrated sound at him, but proceeded.

“Has Warden Velanna Howe spoken to you of her intentions?” He was questioned. Now Jylan spoke.

“No, your grace.”

“Huh. Fine, do you know what the _Arlath’vhen_ is?” Jylan processed the word slowly. He knew the name _Arlathan_ , the lost el’vhen capital city. He knew _vhen_ was the first part of the word _vhenan_ , meaning heart in the old language. The portions of the two words together did not carry any significance to him.

“No, your grace.”

“Then she’s making even less sense then normal, that one.” This comment was spoken in the same rough, dismissive tone that communicated for Jylan not to give a response. “The _Arlath’vhen_ is a Dalish event. It happens once every ten years when all the clans scattered across Thedas meet together in a grand reunion. They share their history, trade news and events, and perhaps a hundred other very important things: and it’s happening this spring. Warden Velanna has asked me to send you with her and the Dalish Wardens.”

Jylan considered this. Briefly. He nearly lifted his eyes to look at the Warden Commander but maintained his downward gaze before speaking.

“I do not understand.”

“Neither do _I_ ,” the Commander gave a bitter laugh. “You’re not _Dalish_.”

“No, your grace. I was born in Gwaren. My parents were not Fereldan but I have no reason to believe that they were Dalish in their country of origin.”

“Even if they had been, _you_ were raised in the Andrastian _Circle of Magi_.”

“And I am tranquil.” Jylan agreed. However: “Does Warden Velanna require a retainer for the journey? Would such a need overrule my obligations to the workshop and active standing as the Vigil’s Apothecary in Warden Guerrin’s absence?”

“If she needs someone to carry her bag across Thedas then Warden Velanna should consider _resigning her commission_.” The sharpness of the Archmage’s voice spoke of great personal violence. Jylan would endeavor not to antagonize him on the matter of Warden Velanna. “And no, your skills are of better use in the workshop than sloughing through the Brecellian forest in winter. I don’t expect Sergeant Guerrin to return from the Anderfels before next summer at this rate either. I can expect that they’ve reached the Anderfels by now, but winter will settle over the steppes soon and without reaching through the Fade I’m not likely to hear any reports from them for some time.”

Connor had known at the outset that the simple distance from Amaranthine to Weisshaupt Fortress would necessitate his absence for the better part of a year, if not more. Still, it was not pleasant information for Jylan to revisit.

He had no comments worth making to answer the Warden Commander, so remained quiet until Surana spoke to him again.

“Velanna hasn’t spoken to you about this at all, then?”

“No, your grace.”

“Do you have any investment in going, now that you know what it is?”

“No, your grace.”

“Then the matter is settled: you’re not going.” Jylan waited for the Archmage to dismiss him from the workshop. “And now _finally_ …” His hand returned to the tome at his hip, though he did not remove it from its harness next to him. “Compounder, are you recovered from your fever?”

“Yes, your grace.” His coughing had not yet ceased _entirely_ , but had reached such low and infrequent levels so as to no longer prove troublesome. The painful, crushing intensity of the coughing had completely vanished.

“Do you remember much of your affliction?” The Commander questioned, and Jylan did not deny him answers. There was no reason to.

“More so towards the end, your grace. I understand from Midwife Valora and Warden Velanna that I experienced a period of delirium from the fever early in my illness, but I do not recall the incident myself.”

“Perhaps for the better.” He said. “Compounder, look at me.” Jylan did not deny this request.

The Hero of Ferelden offered many opportunities to remember the First Enchanter of Kinloch Hold. He did not stand with poise: no chin up, shoulders back, or lines stretched to pretend a short elf was a taller or larger man. To meet Jylan’s eyes the Archmage had to look up, but the distance between them was a conscious tool to ensure the angel was shallow and Surana did not have to actually tilt his head back. First Enchanter Irving, a tall human man, had employed the opposite technique: he had always stood very close, ensuring he was always looking straight down at whomever he was speaking to.

Amara, a human Apprentice who had died nine years ago in her Harrowing, had explained the rules of body language to him. He had found it fascinating before the Rite.

Circle Mages had worn robes cut with details that constantly drew the eye down: sloped shoulders, dipping waistlines, bell-shaped hems. Everything from their wide sleeve cuffs to their softly soled shoes had been intentional. Anything to make them appear smaller and slimmer and less imposing so they could blend into the shadows and dark corners of their tower. Dark blue Apprentices. Dark red Enchanters. Dark green Mages. Blacks and golds for the Senior Enchanters.

The Tranquil had been softer still. Eyes down, head down, hands together, voices never above a murmur. Black robes, undyed wool, coarse and unhemmed.

The Templars with chainmail rasping against polished steel: always loud and visible. Their winged helmets, rising so high they nearly nicked the tops of stone doors. Wide breastplates and pauldrons that dwarfed the neck, swords enchanted by Formari hands to glow in the dark and seek out the hiding shadows in their charge. Helmets closed and hiding their faces, making their voices echo and requiring them to speak loudly so as to be heard from behind the metal.

The Chantry sisters in bright red and white and orange and yellow robes. Ropes of yellow twine holding talismans of rich and glittering amber. Lofty voices, raised chins, necks stretched like strutting hens. White birch tree rods that tapped loudly on the stone floors with every step.

He remembered the Circle when he saw Surana stand like Irving.

He had learned from the First Enchanter. His frame was relaxed but never closed. Surana’s chest was perpetually held open and his robes lacked those tear-drop lines: instead they rested straight across his shoulder. The silver hems fell fast and in sharp lines to his knees where they then tapered back around his boots, granting him the illusion of height while allowing him to stand with his feet apart, again, granting him weight.

He was short but he was present. He was Magi but he was powerful. He was elven but he was respected. He stood as a small but immovable object that never played down his own importance or presence in a room. He knew everyone in Vigil’s Keep. He saw everything they did. If those two things were not true then the truth did not matter: he watched with close attention and like Irving he reserved his voice for only when it was necessary. He judged and did so quickly and decisively.

Meeting the First Enchanter’s favourite former Apprentice had been objectively good for Jylan. It had contextualized many comments and opinions he had encountered during his own Apprenticeship. His subjugation to the Rite of Tranquility and Amara’s failure in her Harrowing both made considerably more sense upon exposure to the mage they had both been consistently measured against.

“Remove your hood, Tranquil.” Jylan did so, there was no reason not to comply.

Surana approached him, looking at his face. He focused his bright eyes on Jylan’s forehead and it was clear that his attention was held by the brand. The Archmage permitted himself to come so close as to tilt his head back to see Jylan’s face properly, but he did not acknowledge this height difference. To lean down without instruction would run the risk of offending Surana.

The Archmage focused on his eyes and spoke.

“Does magic hurt the Tranquil?” Surana asked.

“We are as vulnerable as anyone, your grace.”

“I’m not talking about the primal schools,” he corrected, then held one scarred hand up and conjured a ghostly white orb over his palm. The light was soft and sang in a gentle voice. Surana regarded his own conjuring for a moment and then addressed Jylan again. “If you pass your hand through this orb, will it hurt you?”

“If it is merely a conjuring of light and warmth, then I do not imagine so, no.”

“Do so.” Jylan did. The warmth bathed his hand to the wrist, swirling about his fingers like a summer wind. It offered no resistance, it was a gentle weave of creative energy.

Surana moved only his hand and arm, guiding the orb like a cloud of smoke that would disperse if handled too harshly. He brought it directly in front of him, hovering against his palm, and then took a step back so his arm was extended straight out towards Jylan.

“I would have you walk forward until the magic enters your chest. If it causes you pain, you will step back immediately.” This would not be pleasant. He obeyed the order.

It was not pleasant. When he stepped into the light it was warmth that touched his clothes and his skin, but then it went too far, went _inside_. It engulfed his ribs and filled his lungs, it capped his stomach. It was not hot. It did not burn. It was a warm summer wind but it was inside where it was not meant to be. He could feel it, perfectly round, not touching his flanks but pushing from his sternum to his spine. It was not pleasant.

“I said to step back.” Surana scolded, pulling his hand away and drawing the orb out. Jylan breathed. He had not drawn breath while the magic was inside of him.

“You said to step back if I experienced pain.” He resisted the urge to cough. He succeeded. “There was no pain.”

“What did you feel then? I can’t remember the last time I saw something make a Tranquil grimace.” It had not occurred to him that his face would move. Expression had never come naturally to him after the Rite.

“Any change in expression was unintentional, your grace.”

Surana made him repeat the exercise. It was unpleasant. He passed the orb through Jylan’s arms and legs. It was of no concern from his feet to his knees, or his hands to his elbows, but the closer to his torso the magic came the more acute the unease became. The Archmage began to take notes. They were written crookedly with a shard of discarded charcoal and on the back of a torn piece of paper.

“May I inquire as to your purpose in these observations, Archmage?” Surana sighed in a quick breath when he intruded with his question.

“Now I feel like some Magister,” he grumbled. It had not been Jylan’s intention to liken the Hero of Ferelden to a slave-owning blood mage. “I’m not going to run a barrage of tests on you, Ansera, and I’m not about to cause you any pain either. Maker, you probably-” He curled his lips in disdain, then looked at Jylan sharply and barked another question at him. “Were you ever subjected to experiments in the Fereldan Circle?”

“No, Archmage. I am elven and that was not my purpose.” Some Tranquil had been required for various medical and magical experiments. Testing the effectiveness of poultices and potions, providing practice opportunity for appropriate healing and regenerative spells, and so on. Jylan had never known a Tranquil from Kinloch Hold to encounter any pain or harm that had not been fully resolved by a capable healer before the end of the experimentation hour. However, he had known several Tranquil from the Kirkwall Gallows who had been excessively scarred and maimed by the same specialization.

The only session he had participated in himself had been a lesson in dousing magic: he had sat for an hour upon a chair in an Enchanter’s office while her apprentice cast searching and seeking magic through him. The lesson had ended when the boy had found the small cut made on the back of his leg and healed it. The Enchanter had later been reprimanded by the Templars for selecting him for the exercise: he was elven.

He was elven, like Surana, and it was apparent now by the Archmage’s strong focus on him that that may have been an issue.

“As an elven tranquil, what _was_ your purpose?” Jylan had lacked an unknown property in his enchantments to be considered a proper _Formari_ for the Circle. It had been readily accepted by the other Tranquil that this quality had not been a matter of lyrium and enchantment itself, but a preoccupation with his race. He was elven. “Compounder Ansera, I will not ask again: what was your specialization and assigned task within the Circle of Magi?”

“My secondary specialization was chemistry and alchemical study, with tertiary duties in the stock rooms and storage facilities of the Circle.”

“Secondary and tertiary, what about primary?” Jylan dropped his eyes to Surana’s buttons again. However he did not deny the request, there was no reason to.

“My primary task within the Circle was in the Templar Quarters as a liaison.” Checking and changing bedding; providing fresh water for washing; removing and returning laundry; overseeing specialized repairs to arms and armour; provision, measurement and distribution of lyrium; sexual compliance when required. “My familiarity with several members of the Order was what facilitated my survival during the Circle’s Annulment.”

“You were their _pet_.” There was a deep sense of derision and insult in his voice.

“Yes.” He had been referred to as such on countless occasions, often with great fondness on behalf of the speaker. “The rhetoric around elven Apprentices past and present was always unpleasant within the Circle, but it was especially distasteful among the Order. However, it is in the past now.” The Apprentices were dead. The Templars were disgraced or also dead.

“And which Apprentices did they gossip about, I wonder?” Surana spoke with venom, but his words were soft. His voice sounded tight and Jylan did not look at his face, it would only give him cause to lash out if he was inclined to do so. Jylan did not know the Archmage’s temper in such a personal way.

“Is it your intention that I should answer that question, or allow it to remain rhetorical?”

Surana did not answer him right away, then let out a sharp, harsh laugh and walked a small circle, moving away from Jylan with his hands on his waist before turning around again sharply. Jylan did not look at his face.

“Why not! Tell me, Tranquil, _which ones_ did they talk about?” Very well, Jylan answered him.

“You were protected by your reputation,” he stated. “I was the first elven Apprentice to arrive in the Circle after the massacre and losses of the Blight. You were often spoken of in the public areas of the Circle; by Mages, Templars, and Chantry in almost equal measure and in highly respectful terms. When I became liaison to the Templars there was a harsh distinction between the ones who had served during the Blight and those who had come after. Whenever a younger Templar sought to ask after you in that manner, they were harshly criticized and shot down by their brothers and sisters. The other one was discussed at length.” Surana’s hands were twisted into tight, shaking fists.

“He wasn’t tranquil.”

“He was very pretty.” That had always been the word. “Prettier than you or I. He was taller than you, but not too tall for an elf like I am. His colours were better; he was golden and not dark like me or too pale like you, and when they watched him bathe his hair was thick and curled gently around his face and ears. He had survived his Harrowing and would not be made Tranquil, but then he died in the massa-”

“What the _hell_ are you two talking about!” A loud, scandalized voice interrupted him and Jylan stopped talking. He did not immediately know the voice until he turned and saw Master Arainai’s horrified face. He was standing boldly in the workshop door, slack-jawed and eyes flashing from Jylan to the Archmage and back again.

“You are a _terrible_ spy,” Surana spat.

“Good, because I’m not a fucking spy! I’m your friend! What the _hell is this?”_

Jylan turned his eyes to the table next to him, drew his hood back up over his face where it belonged, and withdrew two steps towards the wall so as to melt out of the way of the two elves. It was not effective because Master Arainai stormed into the room and grasped Jylan by the arm, turning him towards the Archmage and shaking him like a prop at Surana.

“ _Liaisons?_ Templars? Watching you _bathe?”_ Arainai exclaimed, too shocked for volume. “ _I’m elven, he’s elven_ , from both you? What the _fuck_ does that mean?” His grip was uncomfortable and held Jylan’s arm up at an ungainly angle.

“Zevran let him _go_.” Jylan was released, but then immediately crowded by the older man.

“What did the Templars do to you?” He demanded. Jylan looked to the Archmage for an indication of how he should address the- “No! I’m not talking to him, Ansera- I’m talking to _you!_ What did the Circle do to _you?_ ” That question required a long and comprehensive answer that did not seem appropriate at this time given the high levels of anxiety the Antivan elf was displaying.

“All labour provided by the Tranquil was considered the property of the Circles of Magi,” Jylan answered in a partial manner. “While our physical selves were openly considered property of the Templar Order. As such-”

“ _No._ ” Arainai interrupted him again, placed both hands on him with a tight sense of control over his shoulders, then lifted them off so he could- “No! Because that’s-” he spun to Surana, “- _slavery!_ Which Ferelden does _not allow!_ Which you _have never_ stood for! That you are _not_ , Soren _fucking Surana_ , going to justify _now_ when I ask how the _fuck_ you could turn a blind eye to what your _own Circle_ was doing to people!?”

The Archmage stood there with the end of his tongue pinched between his teeth, then he gave the smallest shake of his head and shrugged his shoulders, tossing a hand at Jylan.

“He’s not a person.” Oh.

“You can’t just say that _in front of him!_ ” Master Arainai screamed out, scandal and fury that broke on the disgusted turn of Surana’s lips.

“I can. Ansera,” Jylan answered his name. “You’re not a person.” …

“Soren!”

“Enough, Zevran.” The easy swing of his attention from Arainai back to- “You’re not a person, you’re an _echo_.” …

Eyes down, head down, dark clothes of rough wool.

“You’re just the dredges of what the Rite left behind.” …

“Jylan; Jeevan; Ansera; Ashera; it _doesn’t matter_ because that person is dead and you’re just the warm body doing whatever its told until it _dies_.” …

“Soren, _brother_ , why are you treating him like this?” Whispered words from a more important person to the most important person about nothing of consequence.

“Because I’m treating it like what _it is_.” Supple black leather boots and the tail ends of a long black coat, being spoken to by soft brown hide around the tapered end of silver and green velvet. “And that warm body was the only thing offered to keep Templar hands off of the Apprentices _they watched bathe_. How do I know that, Zevran? _How_ am I so sure? Because as the _worst eavesdropper in Thedas_ couldn’t wait to have spelled out for him: there were no tranquil elves in Kinloch Hold when I was an Apprentice, _Master Arainai_ , there was _Eadric_. No Templar would waste their time with frigid little me when there was warm and golden Eadric on the bed _right below mine_.”

“I… Why have you never…?”

“Tranquil!” … “Back to work: _get out._ ”

…


	17. Irrelevant

Soren was wrong. Soren was wrong and Zevran needed a break from him because _he had crossed a fucking line_ this time.

Be miserable! Be secretive, and gloomy and sleepless- fine! They weren’t at war, there was no Blight, the sky was whole and Tevinter was managing itself. Soren still had enough of his faculties in order to help his city after a hurricane so he could be as miserable in private as he liked! But he would _not_ take that out on someone who had been buried in the mud the social pyramid was built on! _Absolutely not!_

Zevran was too angry to fight with Soren today, not any more than he already had. Whoever Eadric of Kinloch Hold had been and whatever horrors he’d endured, Soren had possessed the gall to _laugh_ at Zevran when he’d tried to break the subject open. He’d laughed and then made a cutting comment about ignoring one of his mentor’s cardinal rules, as if Zevran had still been sane enough to listen at that point. Soren had _laughed_ _at him_.

Too far, too much. He’d crossed the line when he’d turned on Ansera for _absolutely_ no reason and attacked him _viciously_ , _wrongly_ , and without _any provocation_ from the poor man. Soren had made a complete mockery of the situation by opening up a sudden door only to hit Zevran with it when he’d tried to walk through.

He was angry, angrier than he really remembered being with Soren before. This wasn’t an argument about principles or ideas, this wasn’t about ideals or opinions or possibilities. This was blatant _disrespect_ and Zevran didn’t know how to separate the anger from the hurt that fact inspired. It felt like he was _bleeding_.

The worst part was Soren had not actually insulted him in a way Zevran could have handled. He hadn’t called him a Crow, a killer, a former-slave himself. He had not used one evil word on Zevran, he’d called him _friend_ and _brother_ and then _laughed at him_ anyways. It was disrespect that shocked and cut him, and Zevran needed space.

Maybe he would go to Amaranthine and survey the damage done to the city himself for a few days. Maybe he would go to Denerim for a few weeks and see Alistair and Kieran. Maybe Zevran would take another jaunt through Morrigan’s eluvian and commit himself to matters in the far north for a few months.

Hell, maybe Zevran would go to the _Arlath’vhen!_ Soren would never dare to show his face at the great meeting of the clans, and what Zevran needed was time and space _away_ from him.

Before he made any further decisions however, there was one crucial matter he was prepared to address here at home. Zevran was not a Grey Warden, he was not Fereldan, a mage, or even all that much of an Andrastian. Despite all of that however, he still knew he carried a certain sense of _something_ within Vigil’s Keep. Soren certainly had his toxic moments, but he was well-respected and being his shadow had given Zevran many privileges within the fortress.

He was going to abuse one of those powers now, and undermine the frosty bastard still laughing up there in his tower.

“-and I don’t know what to do.” He heard Master Ashera speaking from within the workshop and paused before reaching the doorway properly. As he had done in the apartments upstairs, Zevran stopped and waited to hear what was being said. “Is- is this _normal?_ He won’t say anything. Jeevan? _Jeevan?”_ The dry husk of concern was rubbed over the words like fine sand, making them frail things.

“I don’t know.” Another voice, a woman this time. Perhaps Mistress Valora? “I really don’t. Jylan? _Dahlen_ , turn around?”

There was sound and movement coming from inside the shop. Footsteps, the clatter of tools, the hiss of pouring and bubbling things- someone was working, probably Ansera, but even Zevran knew it was not like the Tranquil to ignore his name. If his brother and the Midwife were trying to talk to him then he should have been able to engage with them.

Zevran entered the workshop and stood at the door. He did not announce himself: he would be noticed. He wanted to see what was waiting for him before jumping directly in.

As he’d assumed from the hall, Ansera was working. The tranquil had several vials and brown glass bottles in front of him, and he was carefully measuring drops of the different substances into a shallow ceramic bowl. He had his hood up and his gloves and apron on, his back turned to the two other elves in the room.

“Uuh,” Master Ashera did not know who Zevran was, they’d had no reason to introduce themselves yet. Zevran inclined his head and showed a hand to him: he knew the compounder’s brother only because it was his business to keep track of who was coming in and out of the keep and the gossip that followed such changes. He wasn’t here to threaten or upset the poor man, he was unsettled enough by whatever was happening to his poor brother.

“Master Arainai,” Midwife Valora said, standing there with her thin shoulders wrapped up in her black shawl, her long skirts hanging close to the floor to keep her warm. In an uncharacteristic show of nerves, she licked her lips and looked to Ansera’s brother. “Samar, this is one of Commander Surana’s retainers. Master Arainai isn’t a Warden, he… I, I’m not quite sure what I should say, sir.”

“I’m his friend, Mistress.” Zevran said with a painful smile, not taking much care in trying to hide it. “That is usually enough, but as the Arl’s friend I can also undoubtedly say that he now and then engages in actions that are unworthy of him. I understand there is an issue regarding…?” He trailed off intentionally, inclining his head and settling his gaze on Ansera’s back. The Tranquil had not turned or taken notice of him, he was busy grinding something with a small pestel and mortar to add to his dish of oils.

“He won’t speak,” Ashera confided, his voice was lost. “I mean I won’t say he’s ever chatty, Serrah, but he came out of the Commander’s apartments and hasn’t said a single thing. He won’t even _look_ at us.”

“Master Ashera is the Compounder’s brother, but I think you knew that already…” Zevran looked away from the Tranquil’s back and offered a kindly smile to the midwife. She was very correct. “He came to fetch me, but I don’t know any better. I do wish Warden Guerrin were home to help with this.”

“You know what, I think that is a fine idea,” Zevran knew his words were meant for sarcasm, but there was a bitter gnawing in his chest that went _yes_. “I’d like to see the Arl try a repeat of today if he knew Connor was home to hear him.” Guerrin was mild and kindly to everyone he met and took about as much prodding to get angry as a skittish cat gorged on sunlight and fresh cream. But when one _did_ manage to get under his skin, and most talk concerning his assistant was often ripe to do such, he was _magnificently_ explosive.

If you wanted to put one Archmage in his place, then maybe the solution was to throw another one at him and let them scrap it out. Why in Andraste’s name had Soren sent the boy to _the Anderfels_ of all distant places?

Ah, but now he’d alarmed the two people who were clearly very worried over the effect Soren’s hateful words had worked over Ansera.

“What did he do?” Valora asked him, but it was in a helpless voice. Even if she knew, she couldn’t very well challenge the _Arl of Amaranthine_. It heated Zevran’s temper again.

“It was only words, Mistress, but they were cruel and unnecessary.” Zevran should have thrown something at him, or slapped him, or done more than just try to yell at him only to be _laughed at_ in return. “They had taken up a discussion of their lives in the Circle of Magi, not pleasant conversation, but when I interrupted them the Arl went out of his way to say that none of it mattered because Ansera is tranquil. That the Templars were absolved of all wrong-doing because he isn’t a real-”

Ansera was scraping something from the mortar into the bowl and dropped it. The heavy granite smashed the dish and splattered the oil across himself and the counter.

Without looking up from the mess, he righted the mortar, collected the paste and oil with his hands to put back in the block, and then started picking up the shards of white clay. The three of them watched him work, but without seeing his face Zevran couldn’t tell if the act was the result of nerves, or if it had been completely intentional. His hands were not shaking but the Tranquil were known for protecting against any waste of materials or ingredients.

“Isn’t a real what?” Ansera’s brother asked, and the Tranquil didn’t find a way to slam his mortar into anything else. Zevran regarded the other elf and saw in the lines of his face and arms a man who had laboured hard for very little. His voice wasn’t naïve, his eyes were shielding against a sense of hurt.

Soren could not have been so ignorant about how his words and manners affected people like them. _‘Because I’m a mage’_ was a weak excuse. He was elven, he didn’t have to champion the elves of Thedas or find them a new homeland but he still had to maintain some _small fucking awareness_ of them.

“What the Arl said was hateful and unworthy of him,” Zevran answered, taking a courteous line to avoid making Ansera listen to it again as he worked. “Surana is a hero and I am his shadow so I could make plenty of excuses for him, but not this time. People in my position don’t speak ill of our masters often, but Surana is _not_ my master and might need a reminder of that point. What he said, I will not repeat, but I will not condone or forget it either, nor will I let him pretend in private or personal conversation that it didn’t happen. Ansera, are you listening?”

The Tranquil did not acknowledge him. He had taken his oils and herbs and removed his gloves, rolling up his sleeves and now kneading the mixture into a large bowl of thick white powder.

“Compounder?” Zevran repeated, but the other elf continued to work. He mixed and folded the heavy powder until it became thicker and sticky from the oil, like a very dry dough, and then he began to pack it into little ceramic cups already set out for the purpose. “I know you can hear just fine, so listen to me: Surana was wrong.” Ansera stopped moving, hands covered in grey. “He was wrong to say what he did, and his words themselves were false.”

The Compounder immediately resumed his duties. It was like trying to talk to- no, nevermind. Zevran would not finish that thought. It was like trying to talk to someone who had been violently reminded that one of the most influential and powerful people in the country thought he was worthless. That he was empty. That he was nothing but a broken memory of someone he could never be again.

Zevran felt his fingers curling. He was going to go back up there and blacken Soren’s eye.

“Compounder?” One last try and still no response, Zevran looked to Valora and the brother instead. “Perhaps just leave him alone for a few hours? The day is nearly done and he may need to just think. Thank you, Mistress, I apologize for this intrusion on your day.”

“Anything that brings you down this way must be important, Master Arainai,” Valora flattered him, but the worried look hiding behind her clutched hands was obvious. “I’m just shocked is all. The Arl is always such a reasonable man and this doesn’t sound like him.” Everyone had their biases but Soren was supposed to be adept at keeping his _hushed up_.

“It is _not_ like him,” Zevran agreed. “Which is why I wanted to come down here and correct him. I trust and I love him very dearly, but that means I owe it to him to tell him when he’s wrong. However, that being said: I would appreciate it if you would keep my role in this matter to yourselves. It won’t do to have the Keep whispering about Surana’s inner circle turning on him because he was being mean.”

They nodded to him with quiet murmurs of agreement, but it was clear that nothing here was settled. Valora tried to make goodbyes to the Compounder and was ignored by him in favour of his work. His brother made no motion to leave or go with her, so it fell to Zevran.

“Are you a dice man or a cards man, Ashera?” He startled the sailor with his question.

“I… I suppose a bit of both, Serrah.” It was always so nice to see an elf with some height. It got boring looking right over Soren’s head most days, but he was _particularly_ unfortunate in that regard. The sea had not been cruel to Ashera either, he had a few scars across his face and hands but stood strong and whole. Not a terrible face either, not at all.

“ _Zevran_ is formal enough for right now.” But the poor man was also anxious with worry over his brother, and Zevran was not one for the belief that stewing restlessly over a problem would yield results with it. “Let him work. He is safe here and knows his job well, when he is calmed down from his meeting with the Arl I am sure he will regain his usual sense of self.”

“I knew things were rough this morning,” Ashera stated softly, “But I’d honestly rather have that bit of confusion than this silence. I think I should stay with him.”

“I’ll certainly bring you back, but I would insist on you taking a break from this workshop. A drink and a game, Serrah, nothing more.” The sailor considered it. Heavily. “It will give you both a bit of space, some room to think. You choose the game.” He folded.

“One drink, _one_ game.” Hah! A fair sale. “Jeevan I…” He looked at his brother and his expression fell, the weight of worry crushing him.

“I will return your brother unharmed and in better spirits, Compounder.” Zevran placed a hand on the other man’s arm and spoke in a cavalier tone to the hard-working Tranquil, ushering the brother to the open door. “Remember what I told you: Surana was wrong, and he had no right to speak like that to you. Don’t work too hard!”

They left Ansera to his duties, and Zevran committed to getting the bitter taste of the day out of everyone’s mouth.

* * *

 

…

He did not go to meet An’eth at the evening bell. He had consented to the rendezvous, but did not attend. Tranquil did not-

He remained at work until the evening bell, then placed the completed requisitions in the basket and carried them off. He- …

“I- at this late hour? Thank you.” Two bottles of witch hazel.

“Why are you-? Oh, this is…” A jar of ointment.

“Yes?” He did not respond. He offered- he held out the fish oil. “Thank you, I think? Do I have to mark anything?” Jylan presented the small book of marks. When the transaction was complete- “Rather late for you to be about. Wait here a moment and I’ll bring you-” -he left.

…

He returned to the keep, obtained and ate a cup of- food. He bathed and returned to his room. … He was not sufficiently fatigued for sleep, but there existed no appropriate alternatives. He was tranquil. He lay still on the bed.

He woke up to dim candlelight and someone rubbing his back. There were a limited number of possibil- he did not know who it was but he was not threatened. He remained still. It did not matter who it was. The person did not speak. …

He was laying on his side under the blankets. The touch slid from his back to his shoulder and arm. He kept his mind quiet. It didn’t- it did not matter who it was.

“You’ve had a really shit day, huh?” Sa… Master Ashera spoke over him, rubbing his back. The sensation was irrelevant. The warmth was irrelevant. The concern was- irrelevant. He was tranquil, and as such could neither feel distress nor accept comfort.

But he knew that if he was _not_ tranquil then he would have wept. But he was tranquil so he felt no compulsion to do so, but he knew he should, and he knew he did not, but _he knew._

“Yes.” It was inappropriate of him to speak. “It has been a shit day.” Tranquil were not meant to speak. It was improper of him when he twisted his body so as to see Master Ashera sitting on the side of the bed, his hand still rubbing Jylan’s arm. The elf smiled at him. It did not matter that he was warm.

“Haven’t heard you cuss before,” the tone of the words was irrelevant. “Did you go and see your girl tonight?” Tranquil were not meant to speak.

“No.” This was a personal matter, inappropriately voiced. Tranquil did not have personal investments or interests. Tranquil were not persons. He had forgotten. He had ignored it.

It would have relieved the stress in his body if the sensation could have folded itself into the forgotten stink and dredge of hate. If the tension could have found direction or emotional release, it would not have pained him. If he could have hated himself, or been angry with himself, or despised and raged against himself, then it would have been preferable to this.

Tranquil preferences did not merit value. Tranquil did not have preferences. Tranquil did not have opinions. Tranquil did not have spirits. Tranquil did not have souls. Tranquil were not persons. Tranquil-

“You’re still struggling, huh?” His body was very tense. That it was uncomfortable did not matter. “Still drowning?”

“Yes.”

“It hurts?”

“Yes.”

“Show me where.” He moved to lay on his back, no longer twisted. He touched his fingertips to his sternum, felt them dig through his shirt and skin as a matter of compulsion only halted when Samar took his hand in a firm grasp. That he was gentle was irrelevant. That he meant to sooth was irrelevant. That they were brothers; that they were family; that his sibling loved him; that Samar had sought built a filial relationship between them since his arrival: all irrelevant.

“It does not matter.” Objects did not have relationships. Belongings did not know love. Property did not have family. Tranquil did not have brothers.

“Yes it does.” No, it did not. Samar was rubbing the part of his ribs he had stated hurt. He was pushing firmly, as one would to sooth a pulled muscle or- irrelevant. “It matters to _me_ , okay? Do you wanna talk about what the Arl said to you?” He did not want anything, he did not possess likes, or desires, or wants. He did not have the proper faculties for preferences.

“It is irrelevant.”

“It is not, it hurt you.”

“I am tranquil; I was not harmed.” He could not be hurt.

“You just told me your chest hurts and that means you feel pain. Whatever your fancy symbols, Jeevan, unless someone’s gone ahead and stabbed you while I wasn’t looking, that makes it emotional pain, or spiritual, or-”

“Stop touching me.” Samar’s hand halted on his chest. “The Hero of Ferelden issued a pertinent reminder to Master Arainai and myself of both the implications and limitations of my condition. It is my responsibility to act in accordance with those guidelines.”

“Arainai said Surana was full of shit. His words, not mine.”

“Master Arainai is not a mage. His contact with the Tranquil has been limited to periphery engagement as the Hero of Ferelden’s friend and body guard. He did not live within the Circles of Magi. He does not have the expertise necessary to correct Archmage Surana.”

“Switch his titles all you want, Arainai-”

“-is irrelevant.” He concluded the discussion. He rolled back over and ceased to speak. He closed his eyes.

Samar attempted to speak with him several more times, but ultimately ended with _‘I’m not going to argue with you._ ’ The candles were doused. The bed- it did not matter.

He remained still and on his side. He was not tired, but he remained still. His arms were folded to allow for minimal movement. His relative comfort was irrelevant.

…

Samar fell asleep before him. Irrelevant observation.

…

He was not comfortable in this position. Irrelevant observation.

…

It had been a shit day. Irrelevant observation.

The next morning opened the Day of Rest. This immediately lent itself to further conflict.

“I thought you didn’t have to work today?” There was no other viable use of his time, therefore he disregarded the premise of the day. “Don’t you have hobbies or something?” Irrelevant.

Mistress Stockard inserted herself into the discussion.

“Oh, this… is not how I expected to find you today, Jylan.” Warden Velanna’s sister-in-law, a former member of Amaranthine’s House Howe. She was a mature woman with dark hair and strong presence, she was familiar to him in the way Velanna and An’eth were, but these connections were not- “I’m so glad you’re feeling better. I just wanted to drop in and see if you would join us this afternoon to start the embroidery on the south banner.”

“The what?” Samar asked, hovering by the burning workshop fire and no longer scowling at Jylan’s array of reagents and tools.

“You’re the brother, yes?” Mistress Stockard smiled pleasantly, gliding to Samar with a hand to her heart and- he did not need to follow this exchange, he resumed his work. They traded introductions without him. He resumed his work. “Your brother has a very fine and fast hand for embroidery. The storm this week tore one of the Grey Warden banners on the south tower to pieces and we’ve finished making the new one, but more hands make easier work.”

“He can do that?”

“Of course, it’s one of his hobbies. He’s memorized some wonderful patterns.” It was tedious and thoughtful work which required constant engagement. However the visually pleasing array of colours and quality of the threads had exerted too much influence over his decision to- “Come, dear. Velanna won’t like seeing you labouring on today and my Natalie was baking all yesterday to make sure there’s plenty to eat. Rowan will be there as well, and I’m certain she’d love to see you.” He continued chopping elfroot.

“Jeevan Ashera you _shitty liar_.” He continued chopping elfroot. “Why are you letting him in your head like this! Quit it with this silent act and go do something fun with your day off.” …

He placed the chopped green leaves into a large glass beaker and poured hot water over them, then attached the beaker to the diffuser: an assortment of delicate tubes and arrays with a cup of burning powder placed under the largest bottle.

“If you don’t go with her, _I’ll_ go with her, eat your share and ruin your part of that banner.” …

“You’re not ruining anything, _Messer_.” Mistress Stockard corrected him.

“I mean I wasn’t being _serious_.” …

Delilah Stockard was negatively impacted by his lack of engagement, but she left.

Samar was negatively impacted by his lack of engagement, and he left as well.

…

He continued with his duties until An’eth found him. He- …

“You didn’t come last night,” … “And you’re not with Delilah and Rowan today like you always are. Jylan, what’s wrong?” He continued poaching embrium petals in a tea of aria vandal thorns and dawn lotus oil. “Jylan?” It was important that the solution not become too hot or it would blacken. He would remain focused.

An’eth spoke several more times to his back but he maintained his concentration on what was in front of him. The attachments others had mistakenly formed to him would- focus. He watched the colour leach out of the dark embrium leaves, revealing a white set of veins that would signal the end of the extraction process. If the leaves remained in the brew for too long after the stem and veins turned white then they would disintegrate and taint the potion.

She touched his back, made a plea for his attention.

The stems slowly bled from black to grey, to yellow, to white, and he fished them out with the small copper ladle meant for such purposes. They were disposed of in a small dish, and once they were cool he would throw them into the fire to dispose of them.

He turned around and addressed An’eth.

“Stop.” She- … “I disregarded our plan to meet yesterday evening. This contradicted statements made to you, but those statements were made from a position of mistaken judgement. The arrangement of time and routine is not my decision, and the deception put in place around select denizens of Vigil’s Keep must be relieved.”

“What deception?” She asked, startled by his claim. “What are you talking about?”

“I have been negligent in maintaining a standard of behaviour within Vigil’s Keep,” he stated. “Although the process of re-establishing myself has already caused instances of conflict, ultimately it is for the benefit of all involved.” This conversation was going to be extremely negative for An’eth but it was necessary and he was not permitted to take her feelings into account as he proceeded.

“Back up,” she said, touching his arms with both hands before withdrawing and using them to gesture instead. “I don’t understand. What standard? What’ve you been doing wrong?”

He was not permitted to take her feelings into account as he proceeded.

“I have wrongly enabled too many individuals, yourself included, to perceive me beyond my capacity.”

“What does that mean?” She asked in a hushed voice. Her gaze went blank before sharpening and he lowered his eyes before he could interpret her expression or draw irrelevant meaning from her behaviour. “What did the Warden Commander say to you?”

“That is irrelevant. What you must commit to is understanding what I am saying now.”

“What did he _say_ to you?” Her voice was loud and it was hard and her emotive response was not-

“An’eth, I am property.”

“He _dared_ to-!”

“No. An’eth, I am guild property.”

“ _No!”_ She swung her arms down and then grabbed him by the wrists, shaking him until he looked at her enraged face. “You are _free_! No one is _ever_ going to own one of _our people_ ever-” he did not give his next action the proper consideration before taking it.

“An’ _eth!_ ” His ribs compressed, throat open: he shouted.

Her hands snapped away from him. She recoiled, shocked, staring. He had shouted. He was taller than her and male. He was not stronger, but he was taller and standing close enough for her to repeatedly touch him the way she had. He had not had sufficient cause to raise his voice si- no. Stop. … Stop.

…

“Legally, Warden Athras, I do not exist,” he told her. “Jeevan Ashera was struck from the records of the Gwaren Alienage after he was taken to the Circle of Magi. Jylan Ansera was a Ward of the Holy Chantry of Andraste until he was sentenced to the Rite of Tranquility on the eighteenth day of Harvestmere, nine-thirty-six Dragon. Legally, and in the sight of the Maker, An’eth, my personhood died with my spirit in the dungeons of Kinloch Hold. The memories and physical remains of that Apprentice were remanded into the care of the Formari, but moreover into the legal ownership of the Chantry. When the Circles of Magi disintegrated, we were not freed, we were disowned. As the second member of the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine, I belong to my guild. I am property.” She was shaking her head at him, cheeks coloured with emotion.

“You’ve called yourself a Freeman, I’ve heard you.”

“I spoke from ignorance.” He corrected not just her, but his past self and his improper actions. “I propagated a deception that was unfair to the people with whom I regularly interact. There is no purpose in freedom for something that is not truly alive. You tend your sword, sharpen it, oil it, and put it to use in battle. When it is damaged, it will be re-forged and repurposed. Any tool without an owner will rust, crack, and degrade. The same is true of the Tranquil.”

“It is _not!_ ” She shouted, “You’re _alive_ , Jylan! You’re-”

“An echo.” Screaming and pleading against dark stone walls. “A memory of someone whom you never met, and never will, because the person I was died many years ago.” Begging, howling, weeping. Shoes slipping against the dungeon stones, shoulders bruised by hard steel gauntlets. Mouth full of blood, clumps of hair ripped out, wrists and arms chafed by lyrium-woven bonds. “In order to take responsibility for this deception, An’eth, you must allow me to correct my own behaviour. Do not return to this workshop.”

“I will _not_.” Then he would request a transfer back to Amaranthine city. He opened his mouth to…

His family- …

…

…

Irrelevant.

“Then I will request a transfer back to Amaranthine city.”

“ _Jylan!”_

“You may leave, Warden.”

“I will do _no such thing_.”

“On the authority of Sergeant of the Grey Connor Guerrin of Vigil’s Keep, Apothecary, Healer, and Archmage of Amaranthine, I request that you vacate his workshop.” He was property of his guild and had been contracted from their hall to oversee the maintenance and daily tasks of this shop.

“Let Connor come back _himself_ and kick me out,” she challenged him. He took a full breath. It had worked once before; it was reasonable to expect-

“ _Get OUT!_ ” -that it would work again. He resisted the urge to cough.

She startled back, moved several steps. She stopped, stared at him, challenge and boldness failing because he had hurt her with his voice. She was in pain, and intensely emotional experience that bled openly into the physical, because she was hurting and it was because of him. He had hurt her. He had knowingly and intentionally hurt her.

She left. He had done wrong.

Tranquil were not meant to be combative or damaging. He did not feel regret. He was simply aware of his wrongdoing.

He went to the door. He closed the door. He locked it from the inside. The only keys that could open it were inside the room with him, in the Seneschal’s office, and with Connor in the Anderfels.

He had done wrong.

He pressed his forehead to the door. He pressed hard enough for the brand to begin to burn. It stung deeply and he closed his eyes. There was muted satisfaction in pain that could be felt for wrong actions consciously committed. He remained this way for several minutes. He remained this way until his eyes began to sting with tears.

He would request a transfer back to Amaranthine city.

…

He would request a transfer back to Amaranthine city.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a super busy week so this update was long in coming. Just a point of reference: every ellipses '...' in Jylan's part had purpose, I didn't just spontaneously forget how to punctuate a chapter. Any guesses? Leave them below!


	18. The Handkerchief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, warning time! It took 18 chapters to get here but this is why the story is flagged for non-con.
> 
> This is not a violent chapter. This is certainly a mature one but only above the waist. It’s not violent but it’s still non-consensual sex. If you become uncomfortable, skip down to the bottom Author's Note for a bullet-list of important points.

He had forgotten the handkerchief.

An’eth’s handkerchief had been left with Jylan at some point during his illness a week prior. It had been soiled so he had washed and dried it in the workshop and left it hanging near the fire to dry. The extended heat of the fire had caused the soft linen to harden, requiring him to wring and flex the fabric until it had returned to its prior texture. The wringing had resulted in an array of wrinkles and creases, and the task of setting hot bricks or a warm iron to the linen had escaped him in the overwhelming stimulation of the requisition ledger and his brother’s presence.

He removed the wrinkled linen from its crumpled place by the workshop window and placed it over a clean part of the work table. He fetched a length of cheese cloth to spread over the handkerchief, and by manipulating a pair of tongs he placed two bricks next to the fire to heat up.

Yelling and emotional harm aside, he was still required to return the Warden’s property.

He placed the hot bricks on the cloth, over the handkerchief, and minding his own hands he pressed and rolled the blocks several times across the fabric. When he removed the bricks and the cheese cloth, An’eth’s linen handkerchief was warm and smooth.

He folded it neatly into a square, unlocked the workshop door, and left. It had been approximately two hours since he had sent her from the workshop.

Tranquil did not possess the authority to command Grey Wardens. Jylan had invoked Warden Guerrin’s rank and name in order to justify his demand. It would reflect badly on the Guild if Jylan departed Vigil’s Keep on poor terms with one of its Wardens. He would speak to Garevel tomorrow.

It was most appropriate to return a personal item to a personal location. Jylan was familiar with the location of Warden An’eth’s room because he had been invited there multiple times before her attempts to change their relationship. She had taught him a Dalish crafting technique using threads and hoops, and they had practiced it together on the floor of her room. The location was also familiar to him because it was within the same series of halls as Connor’s private room.

The Warden Mess Hall was the main feature of this wing in the fortress, and along its north and south walls there ran a set of high wood balconies lined with doors to Warden quarters. There was chatter and conversation in the mess hall below. There was sunlight filling the large chamber from the great windows under the wood-frame roof. Connor and An’eth’s rooms were on the north balcony, several doors apart, and Jylan went to hers.

Her door was closed and he did not know if she was inside. He knocked and waited. It opened.

“You have a lot of nerve, showing up here...” An’eth’s red hair was damp and missing its few small braids. Her hands were holding the ends of a towel slung around her neck to dry the locks. She was dressed in a soft linen shirt and wool trousers, with no shoes. Her fire was burning and the room smelled like Dalish tea: a mixture of honey, rose hips, embrium petals, cinnamon, and cloves. The petals were the weakest part of the embrium plant. Her eyes were bloodshot. “What do you want?”

He returned the handkerchief. She looked at but did not accept it from him. She looked back at his face.

“Come inside.”

“My purpose was only to return-”

“Shut up, flat-ear, and do as you’re told.” Her voice cracked on the insult and her eyes betrayed fresh tears. Tranquil had no place to argue with Grey Wardens. He entered the room. She closed the door. He heard her suck in a breath and try not to cry.

An’eth’s room was warm. Her floor was covered in many warm skins and furs, her bed curtains were hung with dark blue Warden wool. Her quilts were done in the Dalish style of many furs and fabrics stitched together in an array of soft colours and textures. On her walls she kept swords and runes and trophies from successful hunts and missions. A standing mannequin bore her tended and polished Warden Armour, wearing her helmet, breastplate, shoulder guards and other pieces. Her sword and shield were resting next to it and her white spear, a weapon acquired in the Free Marches during her youth, was resting in the corner.

On the hearthstones rested a samovar: a Dalish urn with handles and a small spout used to brew and serve hot drinks. The copper pot was the source of the warm aroma filling the room, heavily spiced and fragrant.

“Is that how you _want_ people to talk to you?” An’eth asked him, and Jylan looked at her again. She had her fingertips resting across her mouth, an arm curled around herself, and her eyes were staring at the fire and the samovar with tears glistening. She shook her head and then looked at him again, dropping a hand to her hip. “With insults? Like you’re nothing? How is that better than when I actually try to talk to you like a person?”

He did not engage with her. He held out the handkerchief. She did not accept it.

“I spoke to your brother after the way you acted with me today,” she told him in a thick voice. “You’ve been rude to everyone who’s come near you since Surana spoke to you yesterday. You have never, _ever_ , done anything you thought would hurt another person, not since we met, and now you’ve changed your mind for a reason that just hurts _all of us_. You _know_ you can be better, but you’re pushing and ignoring and _fighting_ with everyone all of a sudden just because Surana told you to? How does that even work?”

She approached him and he offered the handkerchief again. She ignored it again and took hold of his sleeves, gripping beneath his shoulders. When he did not answer, she shook him briefly. It was not violent but there was force in her which moved him.

“You mistakenly believe that your emotional state affects me when it does not,” he told her.

“That’s a _lie_.” She challenged, clenching her teeth. “If it didn’t affect you then you never would have spared a thought in the first place! Friendship is a choice! _Loyalty_ is a choice! Acknowledging someone as your _friend_ is a choice! Making commitments and keeping agreements are _all choices!_ These are your words, Jylan, you can’t un-ring a bell and you can’t un-say what you’ve said so many times already!”

“I can renounce those statements.”

“That won’t make any of them less true!” She begged and it was unpleasant but he did not respond. She was in tears. “You looked a  _shemlen_ Arl straight in the eye and told him he’d have to beat you before you’d let him see Connor after the siege of Redcliffe. You went without food and _sleep_ to make sure Connor didn’t die in South Reach. You’ve ordered medicines and supplies for the Vigil that _keep people alive_ , and you always make sure every single day to spend time with Mistress Valora and just _sit with her_ kindly.” He did not engage. He took a step back and she followed, her hands hooked through the sleeves of his blue robe, beneath his shoulders.

“You _care_.” He averted his eyes. He would not engage. Another step back and she remained just as close. “You are a _good person_ and you _care so much_ even if you say you shouldn’t.” He did not respond. He placed his hands on hers, still holding the handkerchief, but she did not let go. “You consider _everyone’s_ needs before you act and you’re thoughtful and courteous and you _remember things_ and you do things that are good for _you_ because you’re free and you know it makes _us_ happy when we know _you’re_ happy.”

“Your assumption of emotional return for such behaviours is not accurate-”

“Then why did you do it?” An act of unintentional deception. A mistake. Ignorance. Selfishness. Despair. There was no word for the absence socialization tried to fill. “You _kissed me_ yesterday because you knew how much it meant to me. If it’s not supposed to mean anything either way to you, then why do you keep pulling away from me?” He stopped retreating.

If it did not matter then he would not resist. Because he did not matter, he would not resist.

“Look at me, _Vhenan…_ ” He did not resist. She kissed him. Warm and soft and needy, his hood pushed down and her arms around his neck, weight pressed to his body. Intimate. Gentle. Her lips slipped from his and she spoke against his mouth: _“Kiss me…”_

He complied. Eyes closed.

Kisses had a cycle, a pattern. Unlike a hug which served a distinct purpose to alleviate physical and emotional distress, kisses did not have an end result. They were an ongoing process of stimulation. Unlike an embrace where mimicry was easily highlighted and could prove detrimental to the result, incorporating the other person’s actions into the pattern of kisses carried a nominal expectation of increased stimulation.

She mouthed at him gently, therefore he mimicked the amount of force. His lips took her top one between them before it slid free, then the bottom, then the top again: a pattern. She kissed the corner of his mouth, a variation, and he copied it. Because of his height she held close around his neck, weight balanced on her toes, and he was obliged to hunch down and place his arms around her back. She hummed softly, then repeated the sound in a higher tone, knees bending, and he braced her weight with his arms before stepping forward to take it against his leg and torso.

The kisses halted when her arms tightened around him. She took a deep breath through her nose, their lips locked, and she rolled her shoulders to pull her chest against his before sliding back again. Stimulation. Her mouth moved free of his but she pushed up with her nose and forehead, trying to lock with his face, and he tilted his head to ensure only the very edge of the brand was pressed against. The pain of full contact would communicate a false sense of resistance.

His heart had picked up its rhythm. He was not immune to physical stimulation. He felt warm under his robes and it was not unpleasant. The taste of cinnamon and honey lingered in his mouth from hers.

“ _You care…_ ” She murmured to his lips, letting her arms slowly untangle from behind him and slide down. “ _I know you do…”_ She dragged her fingers through his hair, touched his face and his throat, let her hands palm down his chest before one circled under his arm and around behind him. She remained on her toes, pressed flush against him, and her palm rubbed circles against his side. “Sit down.”

It had not been his intention to linger here. He had not intended to come inside the room. He had failed to ignore her attempts to engage him in conversation. If he remained here then the situation would not resolve itself. If she intended to pursue this interaction with him then he did not possess the reasonable means to dissuade or deny her. Tranquil were not permitted to resist.

He sat on the bed.

She climbed into his lap. Her thighs were warm and spread across his, her knees on the blankets and quilt. She took his face and tilted it towards hers, and he ensured his eyes were closed when she kissed him again.

His eyes were required to remain closed. He was tranquil. His gaze was unsettling. Disengaging. Creepy. He was not meant to participate, only to await instructions and meet demands.

She was kissing him and it became complicated by his need to breathe. His skin was hot and he felt sweat beginning to mist at his shoulders and hairline. Her hands left his face and scooped behind his arms, drawing them forward until he was touching her back. Explicit, unspoken instruction: touch.

He hesitated but did not resist. He spread his fingers to grope and then push his hands up. The linen rode up as he pushed to her shoulder blades and then he pushed down, and An’eth gasped when he repeated the motion up her sides: hips, waist, chest and back. She leaned on him, rose to her knees again, and kissed down his cheek and jaw until she tucked her face to his damp throat and nuzzled down. Her breath and mouth caused a tingle to spread across his skin, objectively pleasant, but not in line with his intentions.

Softer petting down her back did not dissuade or calm her: she undid the toggles on his robe and pulled the blue layer open and off his arms. She repeated her plea for him to kiss her and he did so as he felt the buttons down the white robe release. Her hands slipped through and pushed his shoulders down, his hands behind him to catch his weight. To undress would complicate his departure. However, he clearly recognized the ignorance of that concern: An’eth did not intend for him to leave.

He had given her this idea. He was the one who had made mention of it first. He had stated yesterday that he did not understand what she intended from him beyond sexual recourse, and that was what was happening now. He had stated that this was a possibility and now it was clearly to become a reality. This had not been his intention but now it was hers, and as a Grey Warden it did not seem wholly unreasonable for her to hold this expectation.

Nowhere in his contract was this matter addressed. Nowhere in the Guild Charter, a document he had expended significant effort in reforming via his correspondence with Amaranthine, was this matter addressed. He was without alternative. There did not need to exist an explicit ban on his refusal or denial of service; because there existed an imbalance of rank between them this was implied to be her prerogative.

Any thoughts, concerns, doubts, unpleasant or uncomfortable responses to that concept were wholly irrelevant. He was tranquil. He was property. He was property on loan from his guild to the Grey Wardens. A knife did not complain when it was used to crush seeds. An axe did not protest when used to drive a nail. This did not have to be his purpose: so long as he was fit to perform the task then it was not unreasonable to use him as such.

She unbound his hair and stripped off his shirt. Amara’s pendant, worn between the layers of his clothes, was removed and lost somewhere in the blankets.

He had served as liaison to the Templars of Kinloch Hold. Therefore, he was qualified to perform the same role at the request of a Grey Warden.

The soft linen passed easily over her head when he pulled it and she pushed him down gently onto his back in return. Her bare arms coiled over him, her small breasts and the curve of her spine the places she intended his hands to roam.

Her hands caressed his heated skin and she whispered broken words to him between _el’vhen_ and the King’s Trade, pieces of love and affection. His heart was beating very hard and when she cut her blunt nails back across his scalp it was cooling and tingled. The discomfort of his legs resting off the bed was relieved when she crawled up him and bade him follow, his back able to rest straight, the tangle of his robes and shoes dropping to the floor.

This did not have to be a wholly negative experience.

His brother had asked him if Jylan knew of sex; if he had ever experienced it. The answer was yes, but the condition was that he had never been with an elven woman. The only elven girl among the Apprentices had been too young for him before the Rite, and never as interesting as Amara, who had been human. There had been no elven Templars.

With Amara it had been suppressed laughter and constant distraction, embarrassments and messes, more emphasis on not getting caught than on what was actually happening.

After the Rite, every Templar had been different. He had been kissed; he had been choked; he had been praised; he had been bruised; he had been stroked and petted; he had been simply looked at; he had been told to just undress and lay down. When the Knight-Lieutenant had decided to change the arrangement of his duties, she had been more consistent. She had rarely stopped talking between his arrival and departure. She had been fascinated by his ears. She had instructed him to grow his hair out because the softness of it was luxurious on her skin.

An’eth’s hair was very soft. He touched it because it was different. It was not curled like his, it was straight and thin and soft, warm against his thumb when he brushed it back. The undercut portions, the part of her head that had been shaved by a blade, prickled his fingertips when he brushed against the grain and yet turned silken and smooth when stroked down. Sweat misted her scalp the same way it was turning his hair damp. Her ears were slim and deeply flushed from her heartbeat and arousal, straighter than his and angled higher. When he kissed the apples of her cheeks where her _vallaslin_ lay, there was no discernible change in the heat or softness of her skin.

She kissed his throat and mouthed at him between heavy breaths, weight on her hands with her arms squared over him. It had not occurred to him that she would be this slender, humans were naturally more broad across the torso than he was but An’eth’s stature was different. Her shoulders, strongly defined by firm muscle and gaunt strength, were not as far across as his. He could not feel her ribs for her strong flanks, but her chest was smaller than his. She was in all dimensions smaller than him. The novelty led him to touch more of her, which pleased her, and she kissed his jaw between soft gasps.

Her hips circled over his, pressed down, and rode up. It jarred his uneven breaths because arousal was not an emotional response, it was physical. He was young and he was healthy and while he had been under no compulsion or motivation to experience this state since fleeing the Circle of Magi, the response had not required this much fervor to achieve. He was not in pain: merely uncomfortable as An’eth dragged her hips up him and walked her hands across the bed until she was straddling his stomach instead.

Then she lowered herself down on to him, laying completely flush across his chest with her arms folded under his sides. Their heartbeats were both frantic and mismatched, sweat misted and catching on their skin. Her face was placed past his and she turned to nuzzle against his hair, her lips brushing his ear before she spoke to him in a soft, hushed voice…

“I love you,” she breathed, her fingers finding his hair and stroking down through it. “And I want you…” When he turned his face closer to hers their cheeks touched but he could not see her. “And you can’t tell me you don’t feel the same way, not when I can feel it in every inch of you…” Arousal and emotional engagement were not the same things but he did not correct her. His eyes were closed and his chest felt both very heavy and very light as he drew breath after breath in an effort to cool his burning skin.

She kissed his cheek, then the inner fold of his ear, and then the wet sensation of her tongue made his neck tense and his breaths catch and a sizzling pleasure quiver down his spine. His fingers and toes curled; he was physically confined and much too hot.

He resisted; he sat up.

The expectation was to be shoved back down. To be slapped. To be yelled at. By all accounts the attempt to sit would end with An’eth simply overpowering him.

Instead he did sit up, but she adjusted and moved down and her weight came firm and heavy to rest where he was most swollen. He was heavily aroused and squeezed against her warmth, it was not excessive but the discomfort bordered on pain. He was too tender to move carelessly and froze, sucked in a breath, and she recaptured him without force.

“I can _feel_ you…” Her lips nipped at his, they slid and sucked and pestered at his swollen mouth. Her hands tangled and twisted in his hair, pulled at his scalp. His hands hovered at her bare back, and she rolled her hips over his to make thinking very difficult for him, her small breasts pressing to him and then back again. “Tell me you love me.”

“I am tranqui-”

“Tell me _anyways_ ,” she ordered him. “And look at me.” No, his eyes were meant to remain closed. “ _Vhenan,_ Jylan, _look at me_.”

She took his head between both hands, held him firmly so his face could not move, and repeated herself again. He was not supposed to resist. He was not supposed to open his eyes, but the first restriction was the more important one. She kissed his forehead and the brand _stung_ briefly, so he flinched.

He opened his eyes and was looking down at her chest. Small breasts set far apart, barely enough to fill his palm when touched, but skin smooth and warm and soft even where scars had made it shimmer. Her body was blushing and her lips were plump and red from kisses, her skin still very pale compared to his where his arms were tucked under hers and around her back. He found her eyes and the tension in her hands decreased. He could smell nothing but her, the scent of skin and sweat and sex.

“Now keep your eyes open,” she said gently, and brought her lips to his. He obeyed her and watched An’eth watch him. Whatever she was looking for she would not find in his eyes. The heat of her mouth left him and she spoke to him with hushed words. “I love you, and I need you to know what that feels like.” He did not have any alternative to what she was saying. “You won’t hurt me, and we’ll take it at your pace. _Come,_ ”

She climbed off of him. He was now physically capable of leaving the bed, reclaiming his clothes, and departing the room, but he understood that being capable and being permitted were not inclusive terms. The brief consideration that she had changed her mind was rejected when he followed where she had gone with his eyes. An’eth was now next to him, not touching him, with her thumbs hooked at the edge of her trousers and pushing them down.

He was reluctant but watched her undress. It was a smooth and simple motion that revealed the tops of her pale thighs and the twist of her knees and the corded muscle of her calves. Her hips were narrow but strongly defined by the muscles running down her torso, she was smaller than him but much stronger.

She looked at him when she was done and kept her knees tightly together, feet tucked close under her bottom, weight reclined back on her elbows.

_No._

He was capable of getting up and leaving. He was capable of undressing and doing as requested. He was not permitted to refuse a request made from a Grey Warden. He was tranquil and therefore not permitted to resist _anyone_.

“ _Vhenan?”_

He complied.

“Don’t send yourself back to Amaranthine.” He went to her. It pleased her. She spoke of uncomfortable things. “Jylan, _promise me._ Promise me you’ll stay _here…_ ”

“I-”

 _“Promise me, ma vhenan._ ” …He complied. He would not go back to the Guild.

Instead he went to her and he did as he was told, as was expected. It did not have to be a wholly negative experience. At no point was he caused physical pain by her.

“Tell me you love me,” …

“It would be a lie.”

“Then lie- _ah-!”_

“I love you, An’eth.” No, he did not.

She kissed him, and praised him, and pet his hair. She gasped in el’vhen and tangled herself around him. The smell of skin and sweat and sex.

He was out of practice and as a Grey Warden her stamina far outstripped his. The orgasm only left him tired and cloud-headed, and the focus required to reorient himself trumped the physical experience after only a few seconds. He remembered enough of his time as liaison to correct for his shortcomings. The alternative strategy surprised her; it was one he would have preferred to avoid, but his preferences were irrelevant.

It was not an issue of taste or sensation, but the objectively disgusting slime that arrived as a direct result of his attention. He used his fingers and the bedsheets to get rid of what he could reach without being seen between her thighs as she settled with her curling toes and slowly relaxing limbs. The Knight-Lieutenant had slapped him and called it revolting if he had ever spat or cleaned his mouth in her presence.

In the Circle of Magi, a Tranquil had not been permitted to exit a room unless dismissed.

Vigil’s Keep was not Kinloch Hold. He had completed the objective. He had performed the task assigned. He had done what An’eth had told him to.

She was winded and tired and nearly asleep.

He pulled on his trousers and shirt. He picked up his shoes and the rest of his clothes. He could not find his amulet.

“…Jylan?”

He fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite simply, I consider what happened in this chapter to be an incident of rape. It doesn't matter that Jylan wasn't in any danger, the fact is that he felt threatened and reacted the only way he knew how.
> 
> For those too squicked to read it, here's a to-know list:
> 
> \- Jylan had to revisit several memories from his time as a liason to get through this event with An'eth.  
> \- Because of that conditioning, he didn't let himself argue, question, or resist anything she did.  
> \- Arousal is physical, not emotional. Being able is not the same as being willing.  
> \- "He was tranquil. He was property."  
> \- An'eth's big failing here is her lack of willingness to communicate or check in with him. She mistook arousal for consent and carried on.  
> \- When he left the room, he left Amara's amulet behind.
> 
> See you with 19 either tomorrow or Saturday! Leave a Comment below!


	19. Values

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jylan wouldn’t let anyone else have the POV which is why there are like 3 false ends to this chapter before it actually ends. Leave a comment below!

 

The risk of encountering or being seen by another person within the Keep before reaching the workshop or his private chamber was too great for him to proceed there directly. If he was seen barefoot and half-clothed it would speak of great indiscretion on his part and damage the reputation of his Guild.

Jylan reached the wooden stairs leading down from An’eth’s balcony and put his shoes on, stuffing the balled socks into the pockets of his trousers. He walked and drew the white robe on as he did so, keeping the blue one cast over his arm and fastening the buttons with a keen emphasis on speed. The two edges of the coat wound up misaligned as some of the buttons were skipped by clumsy fingers. His collar was crooked and there were buckles in the fabric down his torso.

At the bottom of the stairs there was a servant’s entry way which he opened and immediately pushed through. The opinions of servants would not be held in the same regard as the opinions of the Grey Wardens very close at hand in the dining hall. Once through the door he realized the mess he had made of the buttons on his white robe, but quickly pulled the blue one on overtop. He was not often paid much regard: the details would be missed.

The toggles were harder than the buttons to correctly loop and close around himself. His skin felt sticky and damp all over, making the mistakes in his dressing all the more obvious when he moved. His lips were raw and stinging, and he could not consciously close his mouth or breathe through his nose. He was parched of thirst and incredibly fatigued.

He pulled up his hood and felt closed in, felt safe. He could do nothing for the unbound state of his hair and moved quickly through the servant corridors and passage ways until he found their warm dining hall, then struck out again to reach Connor’s workshop.

He was still holding the belt for his trousers and the one for his robe which held his keys. He inserted the wrong key into the workshop lock, removed it, and placed the appropriate iron head into the door.

He locked himself out. The door had not, in fact, been locked as he had not intended to be gone for more than a few minutes when he had left. He unlocked the door. No one was inside. Jylan immediately locked himself alone inside the workshop.

There was no tranquil space within Vigil’s Keep. There was no restricted area within the fortress. Tranquil were not integral to its function and he was the only one. Any restricted locations were the realm of the Grey Wardens, not him. The restriction within Kinloch Hold had been purely informal: Templars had only remained away from the series of rooms jammed into the ancient Tevinter servant’s access as a sense of courtesy, but it had been observed by all members of the order just the same. Vigil’s Keep was not a Circle, it was a Grey Warden fortress, and there was no secluded space for him to retreat to and recover. The workshop was one room; his chamber was one room. There were no other Tranquil within the fortress to socialize with.

He pumped water, rinsed his mouth, and spat. He repeated the action. He washed his face and neck, removing the sweat and lingering sensation. Places along his throat were tender, implying marks, but the collar of his robes would obscure such things.

It was not his day to bathe, so he stripped down to his trousers and used the cold water instead. The workshop fire had burnt out while he was gone and the chamber was cold, and the water was cold, and he was very cold by the time he replaced his shirt, and his belt, and put on his socks, and rebuttoned his white robe properly, and refastened the blue robe properly.

He was required to clean the workshop after having pulled out reagents and other materials today. He looked to the arrangement of tools and ingredients, the ash dusted over the hearthstones, and the traces of sand and spills on the stone floor.

He was cloud-headed, cold, and his body was beginning to ache. He had walked through the dining hall but had not taken any food and now he realized he was hungry. There was potable water behind him but he was already sitting on the floor and his thirst was not a strong enough motivator to encourage him to move again. He did not recall having slid down the counter to the floor, but he had not fallen, and he was indeed sitting on the cold stones.

Jylan had violated a social contract by leaving An’eth’s room, the only question was which one. Either he would be reprimanded for departing without her permission or he would be questioned as to why he had left rather than stay in bed and embrace her. Property did not leave of its own accord. Lovers did not flee the scene of an encounter.

The urgency was gone from him and therefore these thoughts trickled into his mind in a steady manner. The motivation to act quickly had been justified on the basis of harm to the guild and a damaging blow to credibility of the Formari Guildsmen as viewed by the Grey Wardens. He was obligated to act against anything which would tarnish the guild’s reputation, but this compelled him both to comply with the Grey wardens’ demands, as he had done with An’eth, and to dodge wider views held by society. The balance of obedience and respectability had been the entire purpose behind Jylan’s previous title within the Circle of Magi being written as _Templar Liaison_ and not _Templar Whore_.

Today would not have progressed the way it had if Connor had been within the Vigil. The thought was intrusive, but ultimately true. Connor was a Circle Mage. He was an Archmage. He would have mediated between Jylan and Samar, and Delilah, and An’eth. He would have taken the handkerchief to An’eth instead of Jylan because An’eth was his Warden, and he would have offered a thorough and emotionally cognizant explanation of Jylan’s shortcomings and failings as a Tranquil. Connor’s very presence somewhere within the fortress would have given Jylan an immediate cause and argument to extract himself from the situation.

The other Templars had not been able to make use of him once he had been established as the Knight-Lieutenant’s personal favourite. That protection had vanished when the Circles collapsed.

The other Grey Wardens could not order him about if he reported directly to their Sergeant. That protection did not exist so long as Connor was away from home.

Although factually true, the impossibility of Connor’s return to Vigil’s Keep within the next few days rendered the observation useless. Hannah had disowned him. Connor was too far away. The Guild Charter did not address these matters. He had no recourse or protection.

It was the Day of Rest and he was very tired. He was cold, he was not clean, he had not eaten, and now he was isolated. He was additionally aware of how much easier his situation would have been to manage had the empty resonance in his chest been able to find release as tears, or fear, or heartache, or disgust, or self-loathing. Instead, he was merely tired.

Jylan closed his eyes and fell asleep.

When he woke up he tidied the workshop, collected his dinner from the dining hall, and had no means of communicating with his brother Samar about the events of the day. When their attempt to speak civilly with one another caused another conflict, Samar threw his arms in the air, swore at him, and left to find somewhere else to sleep.

He spent the evening alone in his room and the solitude permitted him to wash himself more thoroughly than if his brother had been present, as well as to reflect on himself and his purpose. He passed the night engaged in very shallow, fitful sleep and woke up in darkness. Twenty-one push-ups, thirty sit-ups, he dressed himself, prepared his hair, and-

The amulet.

Amara’s amulet.

Round, wooden, two pieces joined by a copper pin. The chantry starburst with its faded paint, the inscription carved on the inside. Amara’s amulet was missing.

It was not in the box. It was not on the chest of drawers. It was not among his discarded smallclothes, or his shoes, or in the pockets of his robes. It was not lost in the folds of his bed. It was not under his bed or anywhere across the floor. It was not in his drawers, amidst his clothes, under Rowan’s book, discarded with his sewing, or near the brazier. It was not in the room.

It would not be in the workshop, but he would search for it. He left to ready the workshop, aware that it would not be here as he struck the fire and filled the cauldron and hung it over the growing heat. He would search properly when he returned with his breakfast.

An’eth was at the workshop door waiting for him before he could go back inside with his bread and apple. She was nervous and upset and sought an explanation for his sudden departure the day before. She blocked the door to force his attention to the matter, meaning he could not search for the amulet.

“The matter was concluded, therefore I left.” His answer embarrassed her. In the dim corridor her blush was obvious to him.

“It’s just- I’d thought you would stay…”

“My experiences have never tended towards such an assumption.” Implying that his sexual experiences had lacked the components of intimacy and mutual gratification that she was smiling. An’eth was smiling. He did not understand the cause of her expression or her need to approach him or the fact that she kissed him.

No.

Do not do this.

“Then we’ll have to work on that, won’t we?” No. She placed her hands on his shoulders and stood on her toes and she kissed him. It was gentle but not appropriate. “Come with me.” No.

“Warden Athras, the Chantry’s day of rest has expired for the week and I am required to commit the hours of the day to the explicit duties outlined in my contract with Vigil’s Keep.” Her face displayed only minor surprise at this before her smile returned. Her eyes conveyed sympathy, the warm touch down his cheek was one often reserved for soothing and offering comfort. Her lips settled on his briefly and she nuzzled his mouth and nose.

“You don’t have to work before morning bell, and that’s not for another hour- almost two.” No. _No._ “I have to meet with the Warden Commander this morning anyways. It won’t take long, _vhenan_ , I just want to make up for yesterday…”

“There is nothing to make up for.” He straightened his head up; she placed a hand behind his neck and pulled him back down. He could not resist, but he could find an excuse. “I cannot be seen coming and going from your room, Warden.” And a reason: “You stated that you did not want this arrangement known.”

She kissed him again, with more force this time, and then released him and took him by the hand.

“Then we won’t go to my room.” Good. “Jylan, _come with me_.” Bad.

She pulled on his arm and he followed her. They went to his room and he was told to unlock the door and let them in. There still existed a chance that she desired only to speak with him privately as she placed several pieces of charcoal over the burnt out brazier and lit them. That possibility vanished when she told him to lock the door and then began to kiss and pull on him again.

He complied with her demands. It did not take as long as yesterday. They undressed; he was aroused; she kept him on his back throughout the experience. As it had been the first time, she kissed and praised him. Unlike yesterday, he was not required to ensure her satisfaction because she did not permit him to rise from his back. When he asked for direction she kissed the bridge of his nose and caressed his face and throat gently.

“Can you feel the afterglow, _vhenan?_ ” She spoke between kisses on his face. His cheeks, his eyes, his nose, the brand- she soothed his eyes with her hand when he flinched.

“I am able to ignore it.” Afterglow: the warmth and tingling that flooded the body after a sexual peak.

“What? No!” She giggled and gathered him in her arms, adjusting them both until his face was tucked against her warm breasts and she was curled around him, one leg cast across his torso under the blankets she had drawn up over them. “Don’t do that,” she smiled and curled her fingers across his scalp, rubbing her dull nails to the skin and inspiring an extremely pleasant sensation from his head and down his spine. “You’re supposed to _bask_ in it, Jylan. Let it cool you down, relax…”

He was pulled onto his side to facilitate her hold on him. She continued to stroke his hair with one hand, and to rub the other across his bare shoulder and back. The room was no longer as dark as it had been before.

“I must prepare to-” He pushed against the bed and was pulled tightly to remain against her.

“ _I_ will keep an eye on the morning light, _vhenan_. _You_ are going to let me help you relax a little.” The concept of cuddling itself was not lost on him or a mystery obscured by his condition. The insistence that he should participate for his own personal benefit was where the thread of her argument was lost.

They were warm together. The bed was firm and comfortable. Her body carried a pleasant smell. Her touch was agreeable, especially across his hair. Because he was not permitted to move, the afterglow was indeed a result he had greater opportunity to experience than he had in several years. The cuddling was not in and of itself objectively negative.

However, if he fell asleep again due to the above conditions then it would negatively impact his day. It was already a conscious effort for him not to permit his eyes to remain shut as he lay against her. He was falling asleep. He was meant to be awake. Alert. Prepared for the work day. Minutes were slipping by as they remained here. He had to gather Dirthamen from the kennelmaster, establish his brother’s whereabouts, and manage the needs of the workshop. He had not eaten before expending energy on her and was becoming increasingly hungry. He was hungry and he was falling asleep. He was going to fall asleep. The sun was rising. He was falling…

An’eth rolled them and he was put on his back again, but it did little to wake him up. Her kisses from his brow, down his temple, across his cheek to his mouth were similarly ineffective. He rubbed his face with one hand to make a further attempt at wakefulness, and An’eth attempted to tease him with kisses down his throat and chest.

“ _Now_ you can get up, _”_ she purred, pulling the blankets down as she moved. She sat up and lifted herself off of him in such a way that permitted him to sit up and swing his feet over the edge of the bed. He sat there just to rub his eyes for a few moments, and felt her settle behind him with her bare arms looping around his chest, her breaths sighing between his shoulder blades as she set her cheek against him.

She pulled one hand away behind him again and touched down his flank, the space between his hips and ribs. Despite the care used in the gesture, he straightened up at the touch.

“A scar as old as this shouldn’t hurt, Jylan.”

“It does not hurt. It was unexpected.” His shirt was within reach on the floor and he picked it up, ensuring it was the right way out before pulling it on. An’eth helped smooth the linen down his back.

“I saw the scar on your front but I didn’t know there was another on your back.” The gouge through his abdomen was obvious from its size, discolouration and the way the scar flesh had knitted across it unevenly. “To scar like that it must not have been healed with magic.”

“It was not.” He found his smallclothes, and his trousers, and his belt. She joined him in picking through the discarded clothes on the floor. Amara’s amulet did not reappear during the search. An’eth had worn her long blue Warden tunic to visit him and after reclaiming the rest of her clothes she required several minutes to lace it up her side and across her front to the collar.

“I’m going to have to be more specific if I want any answers from you, right?” She asked him.

“Yes.” As it was not a general inquiry but of very personal nature he would not expel more detail than was required.

“When did it happen?”

“During the Annulment of the Fereldan Circle of Magi.” Her fingers paused in their tying, her eyes on him for a quiet moment as he fastened up his inner robe. She made a deft knot at her throat and then crossed over to him and gently moved his hands aside. Words of protest formed in his mind but he did not speak when he realized she was putting the buttons together for him now, not seeking to undress him again.

“How did it happen?” She asked him in a soft voice, fingers busy and working up his chest. He did not require aid with dressing himself, but permitted her to continue.

“Formari Quartermaster Owain, Formari Clemence, and Formari Nasser and I had hidden ourselves in the Circle Courtyard to remain separate and apart from the violence. The three of them had found space in the utility shed and I was outside of it in the shadows of the armour rack. I heard several Templars enter the courtyard from the main complex and then saw Warden Guerrin enter from one of the adjoining gardens. He was not aware of the Templars’ proximity to him, and had he been seen they would have swiftly captured and executed him as part of the annulment.”

An’eth finished with the buttons and reached up to hold his face gently, looking up at him.

“You didn’t let that happen,” she murmured.

“No, I did not let that happen.” It had been a complicated moment and he did not remember it clearly. He had understood that Connor would die. He had left his hiding place to serve as a distraction, but he had been immediately struck down in unspeakable pain. “I was familiar with the Templar in charge of the group in question and presented myself as a distraction. She did not recognize me until after striking out with her sword: in the dark, Formari robes were all but indistinguishable from those of a mage.” Her tenderness betrayed confusion.

“Connor didn’t try to help you?” She let his face go and he was permitted to draw his blue robe on over his shoulders, adjusting the garment’s fall before she committed herself to doing up the toggles much as she had the buttons.

“Had he lingered or approached he would have been immediately executed.” Jylan explained, repeating that point. “When the Knight Lieutenant recognized me she became overwhelmingly distressed and commanded aid for me, permitting Connor’s escape. I remember little of what followed save that I remained behind when she followed her Order away from the island.” He had not seen her again after that. As a Tranquil he held no strong opinions on the matter. “Understand that we were both much younger then than you are now. My chances of survival without the structure and purpose of the Circles were decidedly bleak during the annulment, and Warden Guerrin was only an Apprentice.” She kept her eyes focused on helping him dress, and when she was finished he turned to find his belt, his keys, his ring, and Amara’s- he still had not found the amulet.

“ _Vhenan,_ how old were you when the Circles fell?” He did not pause in his tasks to answer her: both aspects were simple enough to permit him to multitask.

“Eighteen.” They had both finished dressing. She stopped him from unlocking the door by placing her hand over his as he went to do so, and then she walked close to him and leaned her body against his. Her arms slipped around his waist and she nuzzled her face warmly to his throat. He understood that he was meant to embrace her as she adopted this position, but he did not know for what purpose she was seeking comfort. He touched a hand to her back but did not otherwise encourage her.

An’eth spoke softly in _el’vhen_ , and then switched back in a low voice.

“I am as humbled by your bravery as I am inspired by your kindness…”

“The bell will toll shortly, An’eth.”

She made a pleased sound low in her throat and then looked up and kissed his jaw.

“Don’t forget your breakfast on the table,” she hummed, shifting his attention back to the chest of drawers where indeed he had left his food from the dining hall. “I’ll come see you after the Commander gives me my next assignment- I mean, and _just_ see you. I- I’ve been enthusiastic I know, but-”

“You will be late to meet the Arl, An’eth.” He would be late to open the workshop.

“I know- one more and I’ll go.” Swift compliance with this request yielded the benefits of pleasing her and of limiting any further distractions that would keep them here even longer. He kissed her without permitting his lips to cycle through the motions of doing so. One kiss as demanded of him, and An’eth was beaming up at him before finally unlocking and opening the door. He parted from her to retrieve the food his hungry body needed, and turned back around to find her still present but temporarily frozen.

“Uh- Warden.” Samar was on the other side of the door, a little to the left so Jylan could only see some of him. His brother and An’eth were frozen looking at each other, communicating things that were only causing further delays.

“Master Ashera,” An’eth addressed him quietly.

“Excuse me,” and his brother turned away with a step.

“Excuse me,” An’eth echoed, stepped out past him, and then swiftly walked off without another look back. Samar’s polite deferral ended and he came back to fill the doorway, mouth open, eyes wide, and a hand pointing after the Warden’s back.

“You-” He broke off without saying more, a step carrying him into the room before his eyes fell on the dishevelled bed. Samar pointed at the blankets and looked at him again. “ _You-?”_ He intoned a question but asked nothing.

“It is complicated, Samar.”

“No it’s not.” His brother stated. “It’s me not sleeping in that bed again.” His announcement was a fair one.

“I will acquire a cot for you, but first I must attend to the workshop.”

“That’s _actually_ why I came back this way,” Samar admitted. “You weren’t there and the kennelmaster hadn’t seen you yet.” Jylan was holding his breakfast in both hands and walked out of the room, waiting until Samar came out into the hall before locking the door. His brother took note of the food outright by pointing at it and then down the way An’eth had gone again, dropping his voice as they walked. “Did you-? Did you seriously leave your woman to run off and get breakfast just because it’s part of your routine?”

“I did not spend the night with her,” he corrected. His bread had gone cold, but still contained the portion of butter and jam he had scooped into it. “Warden Athras-” -wait. “It… this is not-”

“-if the next word is gonna be ‘ _relevant_ ’, Jeevan, I swear on Hesserian’s ass I will smack you.” His brother threatened him but it did not carry the compelling venom of a meaningful act of violence. “Look, stop for a second.”

The morning bell was tolling, but they were not far from the workshop. He was late. He stopped and looked at his brother.

“I am here for five more weeks,” Samar told him. “ _Maybe_ less depending on how the repairs are going and how the winds blow. I don’t know when I’ll be back, and I don’t know if anyone else can make the trip up here from Gwaren to see you or if you can go down south to see them. I have a month to make sure you’re doing alright and taken care of, okay? And I’ll tell ya I was feeling pretty good about those first few days but, Jeevan, _brother_ , I’m worried now. I’m worried about you.”

“It has not been my intention to cause you anxiety, Samar. I apologize.”

“This is the most you’ve actually said to me since Surana got to you the way he did.” His brother’s face was very expressive. It conveyed his regret along with the softness of his voice. “I dunno if this was about him or about your girl or something else completely, but if you’re finally coming out of it then you better know you owe some apologies to some people.”

“I will make the apologies.” He stated. “I had intended to contact my guild regarding recent matters, however that option is no longer available to me.” He was not barred from corresponding with the guild per-se, but raising his concerns with Owain would doubtless lead to his return to Amaranthine: precisely what he had promised An’eth he would not facilitate.

“Uh, why not?” Samar questioned. “I mean… shit, a whole hall full of people who think the way you do and go through the same crap you do, why wouldn’t you write if you thought they could help?”

“I made a promise not to raise or discuss the current issue.” An’eth had also asked him not to share news of their relationship. It would be two promises broken. However, his brother had already overheard one conversation and arrived at the site of questionable circumstances. He already knew. Samar was looking at him intently, his dark arms folded in front of him.

“How about… you think really hard about what you wanted to say to your guild, get it down to one or two short statements, and then we pick this topic up again?”

“I do not understand.”

“Well, you’re late to open the workshop and I’m too dumb to go reciting really long things. Think about it, and we’ll talk later.” His brother gestured to Jylan’s hands. “Eat that and let’s go.”

Jylan complied, and they went.

The day progressed in a very normal and orderly fashion save the lingering fatigue he felt throughout the morning. That his hair remained unbraided and tangled inside his raised hood was an additional strain. However: now that the incident had concluded there was no further need to dwell on or otherwise consider the matter. It was passed. It would be repeated. He was tranquil and so long as his obligations to the workshop and his contract were unaffected there was no reasonable course of action for him to take.

Samar provided conversation and company along with Dirthamen, who was a source of distraction and entertainment for his brother. But the dog behaved oddly. It sniffed at Jylan very intently for several minutes and would not settle in its basket under the work table. The hound remained constantly underfoot, demanded excessive quantities of attention, and overall its behaviour prompted Samar to make several crude jokes referencing animal instincts and basic urges. The jokes were stopped when Jylan requested his brother not make degrading comments implicating one of the Grey Wardens’ sexual habits. The statements did not impact him, but they were inappropriate.

Samar ceased, and then issued an unnecessary apology. He offered Jylan a length of soft leather to help tie his hair back inside his hood. The gesture was appreciated.

At noon, Rowan joined them. She had been dismissed from her lessons with the Warden Commander and still carried her book of magical principles along with a small satchel of magically attuned crystals. She froze shyly at the sight of Samar until Jylan bade her enter the workshop properly, turning again to prepare a small ceramic pot of hot water, dried raspberries, chamomile, mint, and honey. This pot and three cups were then placed on the table.

“Lady Guerrin, like, Warden Guerrin, right?” Samar questioned, picking up the name Jylan used to address Rowan and confirming it. “His boss?”

“Warden Guerrin is my brother, Messer. Jylan is his assistant.” Rowan was very much like her brother at the same age. They closely resembled one another both in face and manner. Connor had been skittish, quiet, and poorly tempered for games or pranks within the Circle. Rowan was similarly reserved, easily upset, and prone to similar bouts of crying or anger. The siblings shared the same pale grey eyes and the rounded shape of their noses, but Rowan’s brown hair was tangled and often twisted into a braid, unlike Connor’s auburn hair which had always grown very straight.

“And I’m this elf’s brother too, my lady,” Samar politely answered the girl. This answer settled before it alarmed her.

“Are you also a mage, Messer?” Rowan asked him, and Samar was startled enough by the question that he gave a loud, nervous laugh. Jylan returned to his task of grinding down ox bones.

“Hah- no, _oh no_ , my lady. That’s his area, no one else wound up with it.” Jylan did not see which if any gestures accompanied this statement. “I… I’m gonna guess you come by here from time to time?”

“The Arl is supposed to be teaching me magic, that’s why I have to stay in Amaranthine instead of going to Orlais with mother.” The first statement was correct, the second was not. There were abundant reasons why Rowan was not to leave Ferelden and the majority were related directly to the character and disposition of her mother. Connor had asked that Jylan not discuss these matters with Rowan as he did not possess the necessary tact. “But all I ever do is light candles, or draw shapes, or recite stupid numbers for hours and _hours_ and it is _so boring_ …”

Jylan transferred the powder to the rolling pot of oil over the fire, and once the ingredients were combined he was able to speak.

“The Cardinal Values are the foundation of a Circle education, Lady Rowan. As an Apprentice you will be expected to memorize the first one hundred values as they are incorporated into each of the basic schools of magic. When you select an area of focus, you will require another hundred values related to your studies. Should you expand your repertoire of spell knowledge and arcane ability, the number will continue to climb.”

“It is impossibly dull, Jylan.” Her voice was petulant and sour. “Connor doesn’t have to do it, so why should I?” That was not true.

“Each value is associated with an audible tone and metaphysical tension upon the veil.” He quoted from the book she had given him to summarize for her, stirring the thick potion in front of him. “These aspects form shapes, the shapes channel energy from the veil and permit them to manifest in this world. The numbers are merely a mnemonic system to provide you with a point of reference and focus. Your brother is capable of reciting nearly three hundred of the Cardinal Values, the highest of which being a set in the five-hundred and seventy range.”

“I don’t remember him doing anything like that.” Rowan sounded less sure of herself. This potion would need to boil for approximately two hours before it would have to cool, set, and be bottled for the Wardens.

Jylan left the fire and took the ring of keys from his belt, selecting one of the smaller picks and inserting it into the lock on one of the drawers under the counters. He then returned the keys to their place, and opened the drawer.

This was where the money to pay the Chanter’s Board runners was safely kept, along with a large wood-bound book with a smooth and dusty cover. Jylan lifted the book from the drawer and brought it to the table where Rowan and Samar were now sitting with three poured cups of tea. Rowan gasped when she saw the journal he was holding.

“His spellbook!” Yes.

“Uh, isn’t that supposed to be with him?” No.

“He carries a smaller journal with him when away from Vigil’s Keep.” Jylan explained to Samar and then opened the book, flipping through the thick pages to find the appropriate section to validate his claim to Rowan. After the first third, the writings and lists and notations for the workshop fell away into many pages of overlapping, repeated, and sometimes crossed out magical wheels and glyphs. Practice.

Jylan found the precise sigil he was looking for: a two page spread that Connor had sat over for three days in order to sketch and align every mark properly. He had used ink to prevent graphite or charcoal from blurring the lines, and much of the page was black from the number and variety of stokes.

“Each mark on this page, according to its angle and position within the anchoring circle, is a Cardinal Value your brother has memorized.” This was a glyph of revival and spiritual reanimation, the masterwork of Markus Etrantum of the Steel Age, and a spell Connor had voiced excessive disapproval for during the course of his early studies as Grey Warden and Spirit Healer.

Jylan permitted Rowan to admire the glyph for several moments, then flipped back through the pages immediately before it: the details of the outer circle were drawn in a larger scale, noted with numbers. The great mandala in the middle was sketched on the corner of another page and followed by the mess of calculations and measurements needed to ensure correct formation of the eight-pointed flower. The glyph’s outer edge called for a number of marks equal to eight times the eighty-eighth Cardinal Value, four-hundred and forty-nine, amounting to a total of three-thousand five-hundred and ninety-two bevels and dips, all in the correct alignment.

Connor had threatened to throw Etrantum’s book at the Warden Commander for making him memorize so many detailed measurements. Regardless of the painful effort necessary for him to learn it, however, he had still been able to cast the spell effectively before his departure. The diligent work of memorization was as tedious as it was essential.

“You must memorize your numbers, Lady Rowan.”

“I… Yes, Jylan.”

 “Silly question,” Samar broke in, leaning on the table and looking down in quiet awe at the designs painted across the spellbook’s pages. “But how many of these magic numbers did you know? By the way, it’s your lunch break.”

“Thank you, Samar. That is why I stopped working.”

“ _Hey_ , you’re getting some of your cheek back!” Nothing was wrong with Jylan’s face. Before he could say as much he recalled that it was a figure of speech. “Can I get an answer?”

He nodded to express his intention. However, the question required a certain amount of reflection first.

“At the time of the Rite, I was proficient with approximately one hundred and ten values but could only formally classify ninety-four of them as fully memorized,” he explained and Samar’s face slipped a little with surprise. “I am now proficient with none of them, but have memorized approximately four hundred.”

“What!”

“How in Andraste’s nick- _”_ Samar cut himself off with a hand over his mouth to prevent himself from profaning in front of Rowan. He showed Jylan a palm, then removed his hand. “How? _Why?_ ”

“Because the values translate into physical marks, they are a component in the art of Enchantment which is practiced by specifically trained Tranquil known as Formari.” He explained this in such detail for Samar’s benefit, less-so for Rowan’s. “Hence, the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine. However, as I am not technically a Formari, only one quarter of the values I have memorized are related to Enchantment.” And many of those again were part of the set he had memorized as an Apprentice.

“What about the rest?” Rowan asked, eyes wide and watching him with great enthusiasm.

“I assisted your brother with a portion of his studies concerning the Fade and the nature of Spirits.” He reminded the girl. “As he memorized the sound and sensation of the numbers, I absorbed the related name and form of each one. After a point, however, I was compelled to fill in the gaps left by his method of research.” This point required elaboration, which Jylan provided: “Connor, like most mages, selected runs and sequences according to their utility and magical purpose to aid his memory. As a Tranquil, I simply memorized them in order.”

“ _Ugh!_ ” Rowan cried out in disgust and horror, “I would die of boredom first! Why would he make you do that?”

“He did not require anything of me, Lady Rowan, it was simply the most logical and straightforward method of ordering complex and disjointed information.”

Samar was leaning on the table now, his face hidden behind his hands.

“I am so, _so thankful_ now that you have a woman.” He spoke into his own palms, muffling his words. “Because if your idea of fun is sitting around memorizing four-hundred random magic numbers then you _need_ someone to get your blood actually moving now and then.”

“They are not random; they are a logical sequence.” He corrected. “I am uncertain how you have observed my working conditions over the past week and not realized that I am not affected by boredom.” Samar parted his fingers enough to show his eyes.

“Sometimes your job is kinda cool, I’ll admit.” That had not been Jylan’s point. “But sometimes, _Maker_ , I don’t know why you don’t just start crying from having to sort and roll all those little bundles of whatever it is. How many was it last week?”

“Six hundred.” Twenty per kit: four leaves of elfroot with one leaf of embrium, bundled with clean thread twisted ten times to keep it secure. Easily crushed between rolling hands or stabbed with a knife before either being swallowed whole or steeped in hot water for easily administered pain relief and sleep in the field. “Thank you again for your assistance with the month’s quota.”

“I cried, Jeevan. I actually shed tears. I was so bored.”

“Then I will not make any requests of your assistance with Lady Rowan’s studies,” Jylan pledged, triggering a sudden insistence from Samar that he was only joking with him. Jylan looked to Rowan instead. “How many has the Warden Commander tasked you with?”

“The first twenty,” she answered, but it was reasonable she knew the first five or ten already.

“I am prepared to assist you until the end of the hour.” Rowan spread glowing smile across her face and clasped her hands together tightly under her chin, quickly scurrying around the table and hopping up onto the stool next to where he was standing.

“I’ll go collect our lunches then,” Samar excused himself with a thoughtful smile, and then left. Rowan had her folio of cut paper and a stick of graphite out and ready to begin the secondary lesson. As she wrote each number, she drew a circle and the correct stroke underneath it.

“Two, three, five, seven, eleven,” she did indeed know the first five. “Thirteen, _seventeen_ , nineteen, twenty-three, twenty… five?”

“Twenty-nine,” he corrected, completing the first ten.

“Jylan?”

“Yes, Lady Rowan?”

“Who did your brother mean when he said you had a woman?”

“Please focus your mind, Lady Rowan. Two.”

“Is she beautiful? Do I know who-?”

“Two,” he repeated, and Connor’s sister pouted at him.

She held up her finger with a bead of white light focused at the tip. She drew a circle, and then the first line: the Cardinal Value of two.

“Three,” he continued, hands behind his back the way Enchanter Petra had once recited for him. “Five. Seven.”

Rowan made a very unlady-like gagging sound, and they continued the exercise for the hour.

 


	20. Jealousy

 

 Morrigan had never seen Zevran so confounded by his own passion before. He was a passionate person, fiery and fully immersed in his own emotions, but not witless or idealistic in his throes. To see him stumped and brought to a halt by his feelings was not like him, and it was cause for concern.

Despite her better nature Morrigan considered him a close friend, a person with enough veiled and unspoken interests to be a threat if he so chose to be, but absolutely no inclination to engage in a conflict. Zevran carried the temperament most days of a cat sunning himself on a warm window sill, occasionally engaged in lewd suggestion and forever pleased simply to be noted and fed. This was of course only a general and very surface assumption of his behaviour, and Morrigan had known him far too long to believe his easy smiles and quiet love affair with romantic stories were all the depth his heart contained.

That heart was troubled and Morrigan bit her tongue to keep from expressing her concern outright, to keep herself from, of all _unspeakable things,_ simply asking him what was wrong. She learned the answer in small ways, over several days. The way he pretended to read his books by the evening fire but went entirely too long without turning the pages of his favourites. How he said he was going for a walk to see something or other about the keep, but returned with too much mud on his boots and rain in his hair to have been anywhere but outside beyond the walls. He stopped dining with her and Soren, declined to walk with Morrigan in the keep’s gardens, and was very firmly pushing space between himself and them.

Or, more accurately: himself and Soren.

“He’s just angry with me, Morrigan. He’ll get over it.” Soren was far too cavalier about the matter and it irritated her. He was not behaving any better than Zevran these days: too chatty, too much talk, too little interest in researching his cure or delving into the intrigues and questions surrounding the silence from Weisshaupt Fortress. The Grey Wardens were without leadership, the Calling had been exploited not two years earlier, and Tevinter was in a state of violent upheaval in the north- but he would not talk of these things? He preferred to speak of local Banns and the politics of Denerim? She would not have it.

“Apologize to him for whatever it was you said and be done with this nonsense.” She used a sharp voice on him intentionally, testing to find his anger, and Soren merely lifted his eyebrows at her and then looked away, as if he had not heard her at all.

She would not have any of _this_ either. She hounded him, persistently, and all he did was sigh and brush her off and not argue and not _tell her what was going on_.

“I was proving a point to him!” Finally! After a day of constant hounding! An answer! “And in the midst of it I broke a simple rule Irving used to tell me. If you’re going to turn authority into cruelty, one must either ensure that one’s allies are in agreement with you, unaware of what is happening, or too frightened to speak out.”

“Zevran is none of those things,” she told him shortly and was given a dismissive sigh again.

“Therein lies the problem, my heart.”

“No, the problem is that you should turn to cruelty at all.” Morrigan corrected him and received a dark scowl, a stronger bit of temper than she had seen previous. She told herself to make note of this moment, this reaction: the topic that would finally get him to burn again and speak with command and strength as was proper. “What was this act which sent Zevran scurrying from you?”

“He is too sensitive.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“But it is the answer you’re looking for.” Zevran was not sensitive. He was passionate and used those strong feelings to fortify himself and do what needed to be done whether he was driven forward by anger, shame, fear, or sorrow. To say he was merely sensitive implied someone so overwhelmed by their emotions as to crumble and sink into bitter weeping at the slightest provocation. Zevran was not sensitive, he was not in his room sobbing into his pillow, he was passionate and he was angry and Morrigan would know _why_.

“Tell me what happened!” They were in their apartments, in their bedroom at the end of the day and Morrigan twisted around where she was seated on their bed and could see him, forcing him with her words to turn around and _look at her_.

“I put Connor’s Tranquil back in its place,” Soren answered dismissively, meeting her gaze before he proceeded to hang the green robe he had worn today, setting aside his belt and dagger on the back of a chair as he undressed. “And Zevran got testy with me about the matter.”

“ _Testy_ with you?” It. He had taken up the foul habit over the previous fortnight: calling Ansera an _‘it’_ as a way of demeaning him. Why he was so preoccupied with the Vigil’s Tranquil escaped her, but not for much longer! “And what could possibly have prompted you to lecture a tranquil mage in the first place?”

“I was lecturing Zevran, actually.” Then it was no wonder he was angry! “And the topic necessitated reminding Ansera that it is a tool with an array of abilities but very strictly controlled expectations. Zevran made it sound like the Tranquil would be hurt or offended by how I spoke to it, so I proved him wrong.”

“Did you actually, or have you simply neglected to speak with Ansera again since your little reminder?” And whatever _joys_ that exchange had produced.

Soren sighed, shaking his head and turned his back on her to sit on their bed. He pulled his boots off one at a time with grunted words.

“Ansera is _tranquil_.” He groaned these words at her like conversation were some great burden. “He’s not capable of getting upset, Morrigan, you know this.”

“Should that somehow absolve you of wrongdoing? Zevran clearly does not believe so.”

Soren made a disgusted noise in his throat, stood again to remove his trousers and then simply dropped them on the floor. He stood at the wash basin to splash his arms and face with water to cleanse himself of the day.

“You’re not _serious_ …” He mumbled, towelling off his face when he was done.

“I am,” she scolded this time, looking for his pride so she could clip and wound him there. “Terrorize those who oppose and offend you, my love, not the chemist who makes your bath salts.”

“You cannot _terrorize_ a Tranquil,” Soren sought to correct her but aha! This was not a clash Morrigan would lose as she finished pulling off her earrings and took them to her vanity, returning with her brush and drawing the pins out of her black hair as she spoke.

“You would deny him basic respect and insist on expressing your ire with his very existence, but then turn around and defend him from your own Wardens?” Morrigan had not forgotten that explosive clash in the middle of her own salon, and she would not permit Soren to act as though it had not happened. That he would have preferred to have such a meeting in his office was irrelevant: Warden Athras had dug her heels in and her Commander had permitted the messy business to blast through the room.

“I will treat _it_ like what _it is,”_ he insisted, pressing the words tightly between his lips to goad her. The bed and blankets shifted before the brush was lifted from her grasp. Soren’s fingers chased hers from the tangles of her hair and once it was all down he began to brush out the ends, working up in a steady manner. “But that does not mean whoring out one of my fortress’ servants.”

“Are you so convinced that those are her intentions?” It was base of him to accuse the girl of it. Morrigan did not know the new Grey Wardens _well_ or in any personal capacity, but Soren was always strict with the Joining. Even the mass Joining he had allowed a year ago, before the march to Redcliffe, had involved a great deal of harassment for the candidates from the existing members of the Fereldan order first.

“What else was there for her to look for?” He answered her question with a question, crude as it was. The brush tugged but did not pull on her hair, and his free hand soothed any snags before they could bite. “He has no personality, no soul. There’s nothing there to cultivate a relationship with. Whatever Warden Athras felt was curiosity, ignorance, and some measure of perversion; but she’s a good Warden and I won’t have to repeat my warning to her. Once is enough, and the matter is settled.”

No, he would not have to repeat himself. They had strayed from their topic but on this point they agreed. Soren had issued a firm order to his Warden and she would not disobey him. He continued to brush her hair, and when he reached the top of her head Morrigan opened her eyes where they had drifted shut.

“Will you not, please, speak with Zevran?”

“‘ _Please’_?” Soren repeated and she clicked her tongue sharply at him for his shocked tone. His warm hand on her shoulder was a mockery. “Calm yourself, my love, or you’ll put the servants in a panic.” He kissed the side of her neck, it was insulting.

“I can be polite when I so desire.”

She thought he would quip at her again with something clever or inciting, but he did not. This exchange of theirs was progressing better than others over the past few days, her temper was not baited and he seemed almost his usual stoic self as he remained quiet and unseen behind her. He was turning something over in his head, parting her hair and passing the soft teeth of the brush through each portion methodically. When he chose to speak again Morrigan was pleased with his approach, and accepted the brush back when it was handed to her.

“Are you very worried about this spat of mine with Zevran?” The brush went to the night table next to her side of the bed, she was not of the mind to stand and put it back on the vanity.

“Yes.” She answered his question and rather than lay her head on her pillow, Morrigan scooted back and simply fell into his arms where he was still seated in the middle of their bed. His legs were folded under the blankets, but it made little difference to her. His arms swept around her waist to hold her, and she reached up with one arm to hook it up around him to brace herself. Comfortable enough for now. She could see his face when he looked down at her and that was what she wanted.

“Whatever has upset you, my love, you are not hiding it well.” She cautioned him in a gentle voice, brushing his lips with her thumb. “And it is affecting you more strongly as the days pass by. I know you do not sleep when you lay down beside me, and we both know it is unworthy of you to denounce someone as inconsequential as Ansera. If you cannot speak to Zevran of what haunts you then talk to _me_ , I am here, am I not?”

She reached for him and brushed his hair back, mindful not to stroke along his ear as she tucked the pale strands behind it. He did not enjoy such caresses, merely tolerated them. His pale platinum blond hair was thin, but so incredibly soft to the touch. It was a trait many of elven decent shared. Their hair did not fray or become knotted or coarse. Some elves did have very curly and twisted hair but it never lost its softness; it never became rough unless it was excessively dirty, the ends did not split or become wirey. Elven hair was _soft_.

In Orlais Morrigan had seen firsthand how much of a detriment that trait could be. For a summer season it had been in fashion for ladies to powder their cheeks with brushes made from elven hair, only to then cover the powder with their masks. Morrigan had burned the set Empress Celene had given her and pointedly ignored how the woven handle of one of the empress’ purses had been the exact same colour as Ambassador Briala’s hair. She had not dared breathe a word of these practices to Soren. He was not sensitive of his race but revolting trends did not become somehow less horrifying for a bit of emotional distance.

It was no surprise then that Soren did not appreciate reminders of his appearance, or that he kept his hair cut shorter than was the Fereldan style. No braids, no long tresses, he kept it just long enough to detract some emphasis from his ears but there was no length to it. Morrigan was his lover and _she_ was permitted to touch his hair, but not to fawn or behave stupidly over the privilege.

She could share a thoughtful silence watching his clear blue eyes pass over her face, one of his coarse fingertips brushing her lips to mimic her tender gesture. Fallen over in his arms like this their difference in stature was irrelevant. That he was shorter than her had always bothered him, but her concerns on the matter began and ended with his amusing ire. Height made very little difference in bed.

Morrigan sat up and she kissed his lips, waiting for him to find his answer and speak. He returned the sweet gesture and thumbed her cheek gently, holding her jaw with one hand while his other arm curled close around her back to hold her up. She drew her hand back through his hair, running her nails down his scalp, but her touch knew the practiced line to take and sweep past his ear without touching it.

The first time Morrigan had wrongly stroked and felt up along his ears Soren had quit both her embrace and tent so quickly she had not had the time to grow angry with him, merely puzzled. He had never explained himself but she had not pried either. A second attempt, some darkspawn-infested nights later while the two of them kept watch over the sleeping camp, and he had given her such a revolted look that Morrigan had promptly sworn not to act a third time. They had been but young lovers then, interested only in each other’s passions as a means of finding comfort and a bit of simple delight during such a bleak moment in history.

He did not like being reminded of his hair. He did not tolerate having attention placed on his ears. Morrigan had never used the words _‘pretty’_ or ‘ _beautiful_ ’ to describe him, but she knew someone who had and she doubted Soren had ever really forgiven Leliana for that foolish slip.

“Talk to me _…_ ” She murmured the words into his lips, pleased and warmed by how he was leaning over her, his arms cradling her body to his. Slow breaths and the warm pressure of his face nuzzling hers.

“I love you, Morrigan.”

“ _Talk to me_ ,” she repeated. She kissed his top lip, then his cheek, tried to coax the words from him so they could ride his next breath. “Your words will not leave this room, my love. Vanquish this demon: _talk to me_.”

They were in their bed, in their room, in their home. There was no safer place in Thedas for them to linger in each others’ arms, not without journeying to the Crossroads where Morrigan was no longer as trusting and carefree as she had once been. She moved herself to lay on him more comfortably and Soren’s hands gathered the blankets together to shroud them in warmth as she settled her body on his, consenting silently to turn onto her side and coil her limbs around his to bring them quiet and cozy to a soft embrace.

“I…” He closed his tired eyes and she kissed the bridge of his nose again, waiting. “It will pass, Morrigan. I don’t need you to coddle me like this.”

“Are you a small babe wailing in the middle of the night?” She asked him quickly, chasing his stupid statement. “I think not, and I do not see you as such. It is not coddling for a woman to desire her man’s warmth and embrace, or for him to speak to her as equals.”

He did not answer her, but he remained engaged. His hand found the curve of her back and swept along it, rubbing her skin gently and forming small circles with his palm. He did not move away from her, or frown when she kissed his cheek again. Tonight his pride was quiet and his anger was mild. He would talk to her.

“I don’t know what answers you’re looking for, Morrigan.” The simple fact that he could admit such a thing was a good sign.

“Would it help you to hear the question?” She offered, and he sighed gently but watched her, didn’t turn from her or dismiss the idea. “How old are you, my love?”

He did not expect so benign a question and showed it openly: thin blond brows that inched up, the tip of his ear pulling the same way while the other was pressed to the pillow under his head. He looked straight at her and then his wide eyes swung about, looking for the answer.

“Thirty… four? Thirty-five?” He pondered in a soft, low voice. “I was born in nine-ten, I don’t know the season. Let’s say thirty-five.” Very good. Morrigan slipped her leg a little further around his, rewarding his helpful nature with closer contact.

“The Blight ended in thirty-one,” Morrigan hummed between them. “It began in early thirty… And you were harrowed at age…?”

“Nineteen,” Soren, murmured back. “Or twenty, if it’s been fifteen years now. Where are you going with this?”

“As the mother of your son, my love, I would know how old his father was when he was taken from his own family to the tower.” Soren’s countenance changed but it was too late: she had her answer and all the dirty looks in the world would not change that fact. “You were in the Circle for twelve years; you’ve shared this information before. That means you were only seven, maybe eight, when you arrived there.” It was young. It was _very_ young. Most mages did not feel their powers begin to manifest until they were ten or eleven years old, but the range did vary. For every child who came into their magic at the late age of thirteen, there would perhaps be one who experienced the change before nine.

“Congratulations on your basic grasp of arithmetic.” He spoke bitterly and there was tension pulling through his arms, making his touch retreat from her. “What do you gain from this?” Something that would make him angry if she were careless in sharing it. His temper would mask whatever true feeling her words inspired, but he _had_ asked her a question.

“I now understand why you never speak of life before the Circle,” she answered him softly, drawing her words from deep in her throat. “It is the only existence you remember, isn’t it?” A child so young would not have remembered or perhaps even known the city of his birth, and if his parents had not been from an Alienage at all, but a farmstead or village in the bannorn, then the name would have been ever more a mystery. Soren spoke in the Fereldan manner but with an educated accent from the Circle: his parents could have been Marchers, they could have been Orlesian, they could have been Dalish and he would have had no way of ever knowing.

Perhaps he did not care where his life had begun, and ultimately no it did not have much relevance in his life at this point. But not knowing something because you did not _care_ to learn and not knowing something because the information was impossible to reach were two different things. Morrigan did not care to know the skills and mastery of a Spirit Healer, but if that changed then she would always be capable of finding out.

“Soren-” He stopped touching her, squirmed out of her embrace. Under the blankets his scarred hand pushed at her thigh and knee to remove her leg from around him.

“Goodnight, Morrigan,” he hissed at her and flipped over in bed, turning his back on her. She did not hesitate for as long as he would have liked before sliding forward between the blankets and coiling her arms around him. He huffed at her rudely and pushed her hands off his skin until she relented, and they both lay there curled on their sides, Morrigan’s cheek pressed to the back of his neck, her eyes fallen to the sheer, faded lines criss-crossing his bare shoulders in the fading firelight.

What she said next would either make him very angry, or it would finally break his silence.

“Ansera found his family just by knowing the city name, meanwhile the Hero of Ferelden-” Soren pulled away from her, flung the covers off, and stood. He said nothing to her as Morrigan sat up slowly in bed. She watched him grab his warm housecoat to cover his skin, storm to the door, and leave the room. She waited like that, quietly, for a few moments to see if she would hear anything else from him, but nothing came. He likely went out into the salon and would remain there for the rest of the night.

No wonder then that he could not sleep and would not speak to Zevran, or her, or anyone else. The Chantry had opposed his intentions to marry her for the simple fact that he was elven, a sensitive subject for him, and now this revelation added to it. 

The knowledge that Compounder Ansera’s brother had found him and was staying in the Vigil had spread very slowly throughout the keep, a piece of idle gossip not unlike a crate of something spoiled in the larder or a particular act of heroism among the Wardens. The Tranquil had found his family and was hosting a member of it in his quarters. He already had the doting attention of several Wardens and craftsfolk within the Keep, but now he had _family_. Memories and connections from before the Circle of Magi, a life not defined by his magic or his condition.

It was something the Arl did _not_ have.

It was petty and it was small of him, no doubt embarrassing for Soren that he was so upset by such a minor development- one he had helped to facilitate as well! Why would he discuss something that made him seem small-minded and immature? How would his pride ever survive that kind of humiliation? Soren was by no means the sort of person who could laugh at himself, and he cared very strongly over how he was seen by others.

The Hero of Ferelden, antagonizing and selfishly berating a Tranquil because the lesser elf had dared accumulate a spot of happiness in his dreary life? The Arl of Amaranthine, respected, admired, wealthy, and sought after, kicking up a fuss because how dare the castle chemist kindle a relationship with his long-lost family? One of Ferelden’s most powerful Archmages turning a Tranquil into a scapegoat and emotional punching bag just because he could? Soren would rather take the Rite of Tranquility himself than let this get out. His silence, frustrating and alarming as it was for his inner circle, was no doubt preferable to whatever fetid things were rotting away unspoken in his mouth.

Morrigan dropped down flat in the middle of the empty bed, drumming her fingers on her covered chest and worrying her lips. She stared at the hanging drapes dipping down to form a crimson canopy over the bed, and crossed her ankles as she turned the matter over silently.

Her foul-tempered lover was jealous of a Tranquil. Laughable, stupid, and unbelievable as the idea was, there was a compelling echo of truth to it. It left only two immediate alternatives: either Soren needed to give himself a reason to get out of Vigil’s Keep for a few weeks and clear his mind, or Ansera had to find employment elsewhere. She preferred the first option.

Morrigan spent the night in a cold bed and in the morning was ready to act. She dressed herself, did her hair, wore her rubies, and when Soren grudgingly returned to the room to dress and ready himself for the day, she gave him space. If he had slept at all then the hours had passed poorly.

Morrigan went to Zevran’s door, surprised him by letting herself in, and made it clear that he would take his breakfast with them in the salon. He did not argue with her, but it was clear he had questions as he nodded and resumed pulling on his boots.

She met them at the breakfast table, aware of how alarmed both men were when she heated the water and poured tea for all three of them. This terribly domestic act in the small hours of the morning made Soren guard his face closely, dragging his scarred fingertips over the back of his chair thoughtfully before thanking her and taking his seat. Zevran’s mouth was a bitter line, and he was staring pointedly at Soren as if he could silently demand a reason for why Morrigan chose to core and quarter an apple for them to share, then portioned the morning bread as well, followed by the cheese.

Had the two of them been on better terms this morning, one of them would have certainly broken from her odd behaviour and made a witty retort about her playing wife. Instead, Zevran took small and silent bites of cheese and bread, and Soren looked at the sliced apple like it may have been poisoned before sipping his tea instead. They would not meet each other’s eyes, Soren was only slowly coming out of his testy mood with her from last night, and Zevran kept catching Morrigan’s gaze and giving quirky little nods telling her to spring whatever it was she wanted on them.

Oh no. Soren had dug this hole and Morrigan was going to make him suffer in the awkward silence for as long as possible. No one discussed their day, they did not mention their plans for the morning, and shared no news or reminders from yesterday. There was only the dead silence of quiet eating, and the stilted groan of their chairs whenever someone made the mistake of shifting his weight.

Soren put a hand on the arm of his chair like he would rise, but made the mistake of letting Morrigan catch his eye and tell him _no_ with but a tilt of her head. He answered with silent confusion, showed his palm, and then settled back down. He threw an accusing look at Zevran, who was staring into his morning tea, and the silence remained.

When she was satisfied that they would both listen and remain where they were, she finally spoke.

“Zevran.” The silence did not break, it parted smoothly like a curtain. “Your mother was Dalish, was she not?” His surprise came out strongly, he had not expected her to pick _him_ to go first and blinked several times, getting the cobwebs out of his head as the dawn light began to filter in through the chamber’s tall windows.

“Yes, I believe so,” his answer held some of his confusion but that was alright, it was not a typical subject.

“Did you ever learn which clan she was from?” She continued, keeping her voice mild and casual just to enjoy Soren’s alarm as it crept up higher. He always hated not knowing where a conversation was going. “I understand that Arainai was the name of your Crow House, not something you rediscovered for yourself in Antiva.”

“That is _true,_ ” Zevran told her, his mellow gaze clearly whispering _‘why are we talking about **me?** ’_ but she ignored it. He shifted in his chair and drew one leg up, resting his ankle across his knee to sit more comfortably. “But I did snoop around a fair bit while last in Antiva. I traded from my place in the whore house into the arms of the Crows in Rialto City, and I discovered which one it was specifically as well. Easy to find and easier still to trade a bit of silver in for information. I know _her_ name, so unless she changed it then yes, I might know the Clan as well.” He did not speak the name of either the brothel or the woman, but Morrigan pried no further. It was his right to keep such deeply personal things to himself and he was doubtless only answering her to try and find her point in all of this.

“You mentioned to me some nights ago that the Dalish _Arlath’vhen_ is set for early in the new year,” she continued in a pleasant voice. “But did you discover its location?”

“I had not pried into Warden Mahanon Lavellan’s business, no?” Poor show, Zevran, to intone a question when they were only conversing _as friends_. “He was the Second of his Clan until the Lady Inquisitor became involved with the Conclave and the business that followed that. If anyone desired to know, then he would doubtless know the answer.”

“Velanna intends to make the journey with him,” Soren dipped his toes in the discussion, a marvel of good graces that Morrigan nearly applauded him for. “She missed the previous _Arlath’vhen_ while lost in the Deep Roads and didn’t know the location of the next one. She told me she meant to take Ansera with her.”

“And what did you say to _that?_ ” Zevran asked, but with a dark tone running along the words. Morrigan considered an intervention to keep the Tranquil off the table but then permitted it anyways. Let the two of them snap at each other a little.

“I told her it made no sense,” Soren told him, “And then I summoned him to see what possible logic could be behind removing the fortress’ apothecary for some elven picnic. She clearly hadn’t spoken to him yet and he spent more time asking me why she would want him there than giving me any reasons why he should go.” There was much to discuss now but Morrigan needed a moment: he’d called the _Arlath’vhen_ a _picnic_.

“My _point_ ,” she said, forcing herself to ignore the equal urge to laugh and scold him for his dismissive ways. “As you are both dying to know, is that nearly every Dalish Clan in Thedas will gather by the first day of Spring. If there was ever a chance for you to match your mother’s name to her people, Zevran, it would be now.”

She shocked him quite badly with this. It wasn’t very kind of her to use him in this way but Morrigan was not Connor: kindness had nothing to do with getting something taken care of. His face went very blank, his eyes losing focus somewhere on the arms of her chair and the white of the tablecloth. He sat there very quiet and withdrawn, murmuring a soft name over his tongue: _Rivesina_.

“Why are you bringing this up _now?_ ” Soren asked her sharply, and Morrigan was fully prepared for the offense and bad temper in his voice. “All he has is a name that he found in an Antivan brothel, from a woman who left her Clan over thirty years ago.”

“Dalish Clans are family networks,” she rebuked him without ire or amusement. “Families may ignore, cast off, or even kill their own members for the sake of survival, but they never forget them.” Morrigan spoke to him like a simpleton and Soren was too shocked by the insult to snap at her for it. His silence gave her ample opportunity to turn back to Zevran with a milder voice. “I will not call this your last or even only chance to discover what you may of your own past, Zevran. Nor do I mean to imply that your home is anywhere but here in Vigil’s Keep, but it is worth taking into deep consideration and deciding if now is the right time in your life to try and answer your questions about your origins. The worst that can happen is that you learn nothing in your search.”

Zevran did not answer her. He was a passionate person and she had stolen his focus away from his anger and frustration with Soren, sidelining the conflict entirely and giving him something that was potentially more rewarding _and_ more costly for him. That last part was the only reason she felt an inkling of hesitation with this, but she had already spoken and the decision was now in his hands alone.

Soren was beginning to smoulder next to her at the table, glaring at the pot of tea as if he could get the porcelain to whistle. _Jealousy_.

He said nothing. He refused to say _anything_. The only motion in his body was the barely-there shake of his head, jaws locked, like he was telling himself not to swipe angrily at something that had nothing to do with him. He had enough respect for Zevran to keep his barbed tongue tightly between his teeth.

“Would you come with me?” And then Zevran did what Morrigan knew neither she nor Soren were the sort of people to manage: he put his hurt feelings aside and addressed his friend openly and honestly from across the table. Soren’s only change was to close his eyes so the rampage in his mind couldn’t spill out or be seen. “You are no more Dalish than I am, but you have a clear mind for puzzles and people, Soren. It would put me at ease to have you with me.”

“Yes.” He spoke too quickly to have wrestled and considered the matter much at all, but that was precisely the point: that Zevran made the request was in and of itself enough reason for Soren to accept it. “I will go with you. I will figure out the details from Lavellan and make the arrangements.” He would hate himself and no doubt remain cold and bitter towards Morrigan for as long as he pleased, but he was rubbish at these sorts of games when sleepless. That he cared for Zevran was an easily exploited weakness.

“Truly?” Zevran seemed too surprised by this and Morrigan frowned at the reaction. Just how badly had Soren hurt him for his opinion to fall so far so quickly? Soren opened his eyes once he regained control of his petty discontent. He did not look at Zevran properly, but he’d squashed and pressed his anger down deep enough for it to stay out of sight.

“If it is important to you, then of course.” His words pleased her. When backed into a corner Soren always knew to reveal as many pieces of the truth as he could find. He was an excellent liar because he knew when to speak with sincerity. “The last time you went off alone to resolve pieces of your past I had too many reasons to worry about just how much trouble you were going to get into with the Crows. If it’s the Dalish, then at least we know we can travel with Keeper Lanaya’s clan from here in Amaranthine.”

“…Thank you, _hermano_.” Zevran spoke with a quiet hum of respect in his throat and Morrigan took a pleased sip of her fragrant morning tea: sweet clementine skins and the warm depths of imported ginger. Zevran did not hide his smile, but let it grow slow and full across his face.

“ _Does this mean…_ ” Better still! This tone could only herald a joke of some sort.

“Don’t,” Soren complained.

“Will I finally get to see this infamous aravel of yours? The one Lanaya had made for you?”

“ _No,_ ” he sulked. “No you will not.”

“I’ll make sure no one lights any candles around it while you’re sleeping.” Morrigan could see it. Soren could hate her for it, but she could see the tension coming out of his shoulders, and the stubborn twist of his lips forcing them to remain in a bitter line. He managed his next breath carefully, forcing his voice not to lighten.

 “You’re the half-Dalish one at this table.” Zevran was speaking kindly to him again; he was happy. “I am _not_ sleeping in an aravel.”

“Out with the halla then? I thought you preferred mabari?”

“We are not having this discussion. _”_

“I think you’d look nice with Ghilan’nain’s pattern on your face.”

“I’m leaving you with whichever Clan will take you.” Soren snatched up his tea and drank deep and bitterly from the cup, ignoring Zevran’s grin and Morrigan’s outright _pleasure_ at watching them bicker again like children. The bread on her plate was sweet and the apple crisp as she enjoyed herself.

“ _You_ , my dearest friend,” Zevran purred across the happy table, “Are the one with the coveted touch of magic flowing through his virile loins.” Soren _choked_.

Morrigan bit very hard on the apple in her mouth, fighting off the urge to grin and to laugh at the horrified revolt shocking through his entire body- not to mention the red flush from coughing on his breath of tea. She finished the bite and pulled in a shocked gasp, hand to her breast.

“Does this then mark the end of us?” She asked with _dire_ sincerity. “The Hero of Ferelden shall vanish between the aravels of the Dalish, fathering a dozen magic-bearing brats to replenish the Clans and restoring-”

“ _Enough_ -” he wheezed at her, cheeks pink and throat grumbling coarsely until he finally moved through the last of it. “If I have to bleed a genlock dry to get enough of the taint in me- _enough_.”

“If your darkspawn consuming ways have not dissuaded _me_ ,” Morrigan hummed to him, telling the sharp edge in her chest to mind itself. Soren would not leave her and never to join the vagabond clans. _Her_ jealousy was perpetually unfounded. “Then do not expect the Dalish women to be somehow more squeamish. Besides, Zevran, consider how demure any of Kieran’s half-siblings would be if their mothers were elven as well.”

“They would need a stool to reach their chairs, my lady.”

“You two are _hideous_ ,” Soren’s voice rasped, his nose buried in his cup again but he was wiser this time and chose not to drink. “But my height is a tired joke: try harder.”

“I accept that challenge!” Zevran crowed, throwing a hand at him as if this were a duel. He plucked a slice of apple off his plate and leaned back with a grin, considering his options with the sweet fruit passing his lips. When he hit upon something, he sat up again. “How does this fare? At times I still cannot believe someone made you drink a cup of _blood_ , but then I remember how you eat when out on the road and it makes a bit more sense again.”

“Truly,” Morrigan echoed, gesturing to the table with its soft breads and light fruits and cheeses. “We starve him with our social graces. His Warden nature has him wasting away to nothing.”

“I _like_ fruit,” Soren reminded them, putting his cup down and taking one of the cool bread rolls despite the uneaten crust on his plate. “But if you’re so worried, then here.” He pulled the bun open, cut off a greedy wedge of cheese, almost an equal amount of butter, and stuffed both inside the roll before sitting back and taking a bite.

“You will make yourself sick,” Morrigan cautioned, more put off than she’d thought she would be.

“ _Warden_ ,” he answered in a chummy voice, cheeks full. He’d made whatever point he wanted and from there he took much smaller bites. That was far too much butter for one elf, Grey Warden or no. Zevran was giddy and slapped his knee before pointing across the table at him.

“Do you remember that bastard of an inn keeper on the Gwaren outskirts?” He asked, and Soren’s smug smile answered for him.

“Not as clearly as he remembers _me_ ,” her Warden purred. Morrigan, who had heard this story before, leaned on the arm of her chair closest to Soren and smiled to show she was listening. He looked at her with a casual shrug, “We’d just come out of Gwaren’s Deep Roads after starting in Amaranthine. I was _hungry_.”

“ _Elves can’t eat red meat_!” Zevran sneered in a nasty imitation. “ _Give an elf red meat and they’ll sick it all up! In-bred little rats can’t take more than cabbage and beets!_ Nathaniel really did not think you would take him up on his blustering.”

“I ate his goat, and the bread, and drank all the ale too.” She believed him. A half-starved Grey Warden could do terrible things to a dinner table if left to their own designs. Morrigan had repeatedly failed the despairing task of trying to keep both Soren _and_ Alistair fed _during a Blight_. Monsters, the both of them.

That said, there were still physical restrictions in place.

“I helped, but you almost _died_ ,” Zevran snickered.

“But the look on his face when we were _done_ … I am never going back to Gwaren.” Morrigan could not let this happy revelry continue much longer, they were practically rosy-cheeked and delighted with each other. She eyed her love and made certain her look was prying and uncomfortable enough to get his attention.

“This is why I never cook for or travel with you anymore,” she drawled.

“But your fish-head stew, Morrigan,” his eyes lit up just enough and his voice was hushed in such a way that it was hard to tell if he was lying. “I miss that.”

“It is not meant to have fish heads in it, _you_ are simply a bottomless pit that would not stop eating until every fish in the pond had been consumed.” His appetite had calmed by some moderate amount after the end of the Blight, but any time the two of them had departed the Crossroads with Kieran to walk Thedas proper, he had still been atrociously difficult to keep full even if _he_ was the one at the cook pot.

“But the heads are the best part,” he complained now, eyebrows tilted just-so, and his fingertips finding the soft side of her wrist when she let her hand fall close enough for contact. _Was_ he lying?

“That is a lie: for whatever baffling reason you always insisted on chewing the tails. Zevran remembers.”

“Zevran remembers,” Zevran said, “And Zevran is withholding comments because your cooking was very hot and very good in the cold Fereldan weather, especially my first Fereldan winter, but the things you southerners do to fish would make the fishwives of Antiva _weep_.” _Hush_ , Ferelden did not grow the same spices any Antivan peasant could sprout in a pot on their window sill.

 “I chewed the tails because you always salted them so well. You can hardly blame me for that.” Soren called her attention back and he did not chase Zevran’s complaints about Fereldan food or take the opportunity to mock her  cooking. Instead he flattered her, but he was supposed to be lying? He was not lying. But he was _not_ lying?

“You’re being serious?” Morrigan asked him outright, because she was confused by him now.

“No, I’m lying. I hate your cooking and especially your soup.” The temptation to take him by his scarred ear and _pull very hard_ was making her fingers itch. 

“ _Make the soup,”_ Zevran _whispered_ , which was to say he spoke in a loud, husking breath. “ _Then don’t give him any_.” Soren snapped to him with a glare that finally cut through his nonsense: _yes_ , he liked the meal being discussed _._

“You stay out of this,” her love scolded.

“No. Never.” Zevran’s pout was comical and false. “You can’t make me.”

“I’m leaving you with the Dalish.”

“As if they will let _you_ leave.”

“Morrigan will protect me.” Oh-? Oh _no._

“If the Dalish want you then they can have you,” Morrigan announced most pleasantly, and then rose from the table before Soren could whine or squawk at her. “And I will run away with Zevran to Par Vollen.” She walked past Soren’s chair, but trailed her hand across the back of it, ending with a brief touch on his shoulder before she was beyond him.

“Where we shall live out the rest of our lives as Videthari sugar farmers!” Zevran trumpeted, pounding his fist on the table as she walked by.

“Well then why are we all still here?” Soren asked, lost somewhere between the need to outdo their ridiculous announcements and to bring them back to some sense of sanity. “Let me go renounce my office and titles, while you two- I don’t even want to know. Don’t tell me, I’m happier in my ignorance.”

Morrigan left them to laugh and exclaim over the process of making Kieran the King of Ferelden and how plausible it would be to have the golem Shale named Divine. Personally, she was rather taken with Zevran’s idea of making Warden Guerrin the Emperor of Orlais. Things were not fixed, but they were better now than they had been last night.

Morrigan was very, very pleased.

 


	21. Mage Telaren

 

An’eth departed from Vigil’s Keep by the middle of that week. Her assignment was routine for an Amaranthine Grey Warden: she was to take a patrol of Wardens into the silverite mines which supplied the Arling and the Order with the metal and ensure that the dwarven doors and devices used to block off the mine’s Deep Roads access point were holding firm.

An’eth explained to him prior to her departure that if she and the others sensed the Darkspawn lingering too close to the barrier, then there existed the possibility that they would open the doors to combat the beasts and rout the monsters before they could spawn nests or recognize how close to the surface they really were. Opening doors specifically meant to lock Darkspawn in the Roads carried no small amount of risk.

As with any assignment, regardless of how routine, there was the possibility that she would not return. For her mental and emotional sake however this simple fact was not announced and Jylan similarly refrained from explaining to her that he was not worried, concerned, or otherwise burdened by the suggestion of her impending danger. He was tranquil and opted for silence which the Warden interpreted as thoughtful and suggestive of emotion. She was incorrect in this assumption, but Jylan understood that any efforts to correct her at this point would only harm her capacity to focus and safeguard herself from danger.

She kissed him, made promises of returning with gifts of some manner, and departed the next morning without requiring intimate company from him. He was as incapable of relief over this final point as he was of frustration over one key aspect of their final conversation: Amara’s amulet. An’eth claimed not to have it.

This was improbable. This was highly unlikely. This was a claim which bordered on outright falsehood. Jylan had possessed and worn the amulet before entering An’eth’s room to return her handkerchief. He had left her room without it. The amulet was either in Warden Athras’ room or on her person, meaning she was either ignorant of this fact or deliberately avoiding it. For the sake of avoiding further conflict with her it was preferable to consider only the former as a viable option.

He permitted himself to carry this preference because despite the harsh reminder presented from the Warden Commander concerning his status and inabilities as a tranquil to fully participate in normal society: it was too difficult to correct himself. Attempts to recondition himself to more acceptable behaviour had resulted in outright conflict with nearly every person he had encountered during the exercise: his brother, the midwife, Vessa, the kennelmaster, the quartermaster, Master Arainai, Seamstress Correlay, Mistress Stockard, Natalie Stockard, Lady Guerrin, Warden Velanna, and, most keenly, Warden Athras.

Barred from returning to Amaranthine by An’eth’s command, he conceded the point as lost and deferred the eventual destructive consequences of his actions until a later date. Eventually the Archmage would punish him for transgressing and imitating proper relationships and emotional bonds, for cheapening the legitimate and cooperative forms of these interactions, and he would be summarily dismissed from the keep at that point.

Until then, he resumed his habitual behaviour around the Vigil. The workshop was managed; his brother was interacted with; Mistress Valora was visited and permitted to give him food; Lady Rowan continued her studies with his supplementary aid; Mistress Stockard acquired his skill and focus with the embroidered patterns and borders for the repaired banner; Dirth was tolerated.

Jylan received an uncharacteristic summons a week after An’eth’s departure from Vigil’s Keep. He was not clear on the meaning or necessity behind his present request to appear in the Keep’s rookery, but a message from Master Arainai was not one he was permitted to ignore. After the noon bell, he arrived at the designated tower location.

The Vigil’s rookery was housed in the tall single tower which capped the top of the fortress from a distance. There were few cages but rather several coops and dozens of perches, the wooden floors strewn with fresh rushes that were regularly cleared and replaced. A simple iron stove heated the space directly behind a large writing desk and several cabinets of important items, but otherwise the tower was cold and open to the air around the Vigil. But it was not wet. Cold, yes, but not wet.

This was where Master Arainai worked.

Master Zevran Arainai was Archmage Surana’s close friend and body-guard. He shadowed the Arl and kept an eye on both Vigil’s Keep and Amaranthine Arling in general. He had accompanied and aided Archmage Surana during the Blight, earning himself the respect and accolades of a hero in his own right. His nature was guarded, but friendly, and his skills as an agent of the Warden Commander’s reach had seen him adopt great responsibilities during the war with Redcliffe. Since the war, Master Arainai and Jylan had not spoken directly to one another on any noteworthy occasion.

“Compounder Ashera, thank you for coming up all this way to meet with me!” He was greeted by the Antivan elf and did not pause at the change in surname, merely crossed his wrists and performed a short bow. It was how he greeted the Archmage when spoken to, therefore it was reasonable to assume that similar respects should be paid to his spymaster, protector, and friend. Jylan’s gaze rested on the other elf’s chest and did not rise. “Could I interest you in a cup of mulled wine? I always keep a bit of something warm up here, miserable as it is in winter.”

“No thank you, Master Arainai.” Jylan answered. “How may I be of service?”

“Sit, Ashera, sit, there’s no need to stand there so stiffly.” Jylan was presented with a chair. He settled his weight on it and Master Arainai climbed up onto the corner of his desk, leaning down onto his elbows and over his dangling boots. “I’ve not asked you here for any sort of trouble, merely to speak.”

“My presence may be required in the Apothecary workshop until evening bell, I had not interpreted a social aspect behind your summons.”

“Merely to speak of _important_ things, Compounder.” Master Arainai handled his words with a smooth, soft voice, regarding him with half-lidded eyes that communicated things Jylan was inept at understanding for himself. He dropped his eyes again when he realized he had transgressed and looked at the assassin’s face. “It will not interfere with your work. I have questions which you seem to be the only person in Vigil’s Keep capable of answering.”

Master Arainai was a skilled chemist in his own right, however his recipes normally dealt in the realm of pain, inflammation, and debilitation. Jylan had acquired nearly two dozen recipes from Master Arainai over the previous calendar year to help free the former assassin from the tedious burden of preparing his own agents and solutions. It was logical to assume that this meeting now would deal with similar matters, but that logic felt flawed by their location.

Master Arainai had not spoken again. He required Jylan’s verbal confirmation:

“I will answer to the best of my ability, Master Arainai.” The other elf swept a wide grin across his face and shifted from leaning on his knees to swinging his arms back and planting his hands on the desk, leaning comfortably back.

“I would speak to you of your time in Kinloch Hold.” An unfortunate topic, but Jylan kept his gaze on the brass buttons and fine black velvet of his warm doublet. “Compounder Ashera, how many elves lived among you in the Circle of Magi? In general, across the ranks and distinctions.”

This was a question Jylan pondered for several minutes. The faces and names were blurred by time, by lack of contact, by things best left unremembered.

“There were five other elven apprentices younger than I during my tenure. I believe there were five or seven mages. Enchanter Elorah was the only elven Enchanter. Senior Enchanter Fissher died the same winter as First Enchanter Irving. In strictly technical terms, Archmage Surana maintained an association with Kinloch Hold.” Master Arainai was numbering off his fingers.

“I suppose there would have been more before the Blight,” he spoke in a tone indicative of self-speak, not something Jylan was expected to respond to. “But that is not so poor a number, nearly twenty. Were there any other elves among the Tranquil?”

“Not in Kinloch Hold, ser.”

“And you say the other apprentices were all younger than you, by how much?”

“Several years,” he answered. “I was the first apprentice brought to the Circle of Magi after the Blight, and the only elf for nearly two years.”

“Do you think your experiences as an apprentice were much affected by your elven nature?”

“Yes, ser.”

Master Arainai dropped from his desk and walked with loud, clicking steps to fetch something. Heel-toe, heel-toe, not the way most would walk unless they meant to draw attention to the sound. A pair of wooden cups, the throaty draw of pouring water, and then the deep glug of something warm and fragrant. Master Arainai returned and held a cup to Jylan which held a pale golden liquid with several herbs floating in it: knotted cloves and curls of cinnamon.

He had verbally declined the drink but understood that an outright refusal would be taken as offensive. Master Arainai was not someone to be offended. Jylan accepted the warm cup, and the fragrance of the heated and spiced wine was pleasing when he breathed them in. He did not drink from it, but the aroma was very agreeable.

“How were elves treated differently from humans in the Circle, Compounder?” Master Arainai reclaimed his spot and sipped his wine after speaking, but Jylan answered him directly.

“Archmage Surana’s reputation was considered deeply burdensome before the Rite absolved me of my obligations to him.”

“What- they? They held you up to the _Hero of Ferelden?_ ” Arainai phrased the question as something funny or an exaggeration.

“The Hero of Ferelden was highly regarded within the Circle of Magi.” Jylan explained the matter more thoroughly. “His reputation as a peerless and devastatingly powerful Archmage garnered him great respect and commendation from his fellow mages. For elven apprentices newly brought to the Circle in his wake, the expectations were overwhelming but distinct. I was repeatedly derided as an unfit successor to his reputation by nearly every faction in the Circle.”

“ _Nearly_ every?” Arainai pressed.

“The Tranquil did not concern themselves with the abilities or struggles of apprentices.”

“So your teachers were rude about it, the Templars as well?”

“Yes.”

“The Chantry?”

“In my second year I was made to stand at the front of the Circle Chantry as the Revered Mother cast me in relief to the Hero of Ferelden. It was not a flattering appraisal.” He had cried for several nights after the fact, and had taken great pains to keep that fact hidden from his bedmates in the apprentice dorms. Warm water poured over breathing blankets and sleeping legs had been sufficient to keep more troublesome or belligerent apprentices too embarrassed and preoccupied to bother with him.

“Maker’s _mercy,”_ Arainai swore, rubbing a hand over his face _. “_ I already know you’re going to mention the other apprentices, but I’m amazed Connor would have allowed them to carry on about you.”

“Warden Guerrin was an especially vocal critic of my behaviour.” Jylan had poured many cups of water onto his sleeping bed to stave off lectures, hurtful comments, and regaling tales of the Hero of Ferelden. He did not reveal this fact to Master Arainai.

“You’re _shitting me_!”

“Our later friendship was a product of forced proximity, Master Arainai, not early chemistry or complimentary natures.” Jylan remembered the burn of anger, but not the words themselves, that had finally motivated him to cast two beads of golden light under his own bed and over Connor’s: he had mimicked demon’s eyes and scared his cohort so badly in the night that he had woken the entire dormitory and then vomited from his own screaming. Jylan had never repeated the exercise nor revealed his guilt to the Templars who had dragged Connor into the dungeons for a day and night to calm him down. Connor had doubtless been too humbled by his terror to dare evoking memories of Redcliffe for the many months that had followed.

Master Arainai was rubbing his face with both hands, his mulled wine sitting next to him on the desk. Jylan permitted himself to look at the other elf now. His blond hair was neatly braided behind his head, his dark skin warm and smooth despite the few faint pale lines cut across his cheeks and fingers. His complexion was more even than Jylan’s, his skin darker but richer, his hair liberally threaded with gold and a few teasing strands of grey. His ears were sloped more back than up or out, delicate but not long, and he wore a polished gold earring in the lobe of one.

“… _fuck.”_ Jylan’s gaze returned to the array of fine brass buckles on the assassin’s jacket sleeve. He had observed but not been caught doing so. Arainai pulled in a slow breath and let his hands fall from his face, looking up with an expression Jylan did not gaze at. “Drink some of that, will you? It won’t make the truth any sweeter but at least it will warm you.”

Jylan had been sufficiently warm after climbing through the fortress to reach the rookery, but now that he had sat so still for so long he was indeed becoming cold in his extremities. The wine was rich and spiced, with a dryness to it that kept the drink from being cloying with its sweetness. It was warm across his lips and filled his mouth and nose pleasantly with the herbs, then passed smoothly when he swallowed. The water Master Arainai had added to the drink was purely to keep the strength of the wine from becoming intoxicating.

“I’m sorry for how they treated you because of Soren,” Master Arainai’s apology was misplaced and held no bearing on Jylan any longer: he was tranquil. “He was only doing what was necessary to end the Blight. The Circle should not have taken his exceptional skills and then used them to berate and harass children. I’ll be sure to give Connor a proper tearing down when he comes home as well: better it come from another elf than just stay something only you and he are aware of.”

“That will not be necessary, Master Arainai.”

“Oh yes it will be.” No, it would not, but Jylan remained silent. “Don’t worry I shall not hurt him, merely frighten him a little.”

“Was this all you wished to discuss with me, Master Arainai?” If so then Jylan would take his leave and consider a proper method of dissuading violence towards Connor.

“No, keep your seat.” Jylan did not move. Arainai sighed and drank his wine again, then folded his hands in front of him. “Connor _might_ know the answer to this next question, but after what you’ve told me I think it far more likely that you will know the details. Compounder Ashera, do you know anything about a Circle Elf named _Eadric?_ He would have been older than you, a contemporary of the Archmage’s. _”_

 _“_ Yes, Master Arainai.”

“Truly?” His voice was pitched with surprise. “And off the top of your head?”

“I was reminded of him recently when speaking to the Warden Commander in his laboratory.”

“Mm.” Arainai grunted behind closed teeth. “Yes, that was when I first heard the name as well. Who was he? I assume he is no longer among the living.”

“Magi Eadric Telaren of Kinloch Hold died during the Blight, Ser. He was the Hero of Ferelden’s cohort.”

“So you never met him?” Arainai pushed, “Then how do you know about him?”

“Mage Telaren was elven like myself. During their tenure within Kinloch hold Surana and Telaren were the only two elven apprentices and were harrowed within several weeks of each other.” Surana had been harrowed first, Telaren had followed him, and their third cohort had been a blood mage escapee threatened by his classmates’ mutual talents with magic.

“Did Telaren survive his harrowing? You call him _mage,_ so how did he die?”

“Mage Telaren survived his harrowing but was killed during the uprising and revolt of the blood mage Uldred a number of months later, an event instigated by Teyrn Loghain.” Arainai showed a hand to him.

“I am aware of what Uldred _and_ Loghain did. Were you ever told which side of the conflict Eadric found himself on?”

“It has been an assumption, credited to the conversation of several Templars, that Mage Telaren fought against the blood mages and was used as an unwilling vessel for a demon. He burned himself to death with his own magic to prevent possession and was aided in that effort by the Templars who witnessed the event firsthand. He was posthumously absolved of participation in Blood Magic and his name was carved into the memorial wall of Kinloch Hold for death in service to the Circle.”

“Then let it be that Andraste helped guide his spirit to the Maker’s side…” Master Arainai seemed gravely disappointed in all that Jylan had said, and they both drank the fragrant wine. Several quiet minutes passed with only the tapping of rain on the tower shingles, before the assassin spoke again.

“He was an elf like you and I, Ashera, but why did I intrude on a conversation about _Templars_ that used his name so freely?” It would not be tactful to answer this question truthfully, but Jylan was tranquil and thus did not possess the social skill of tact in any great capacity.

“It is an unpleasant consideration.”

“I would hear it anyways, unless it would upset you personally to speak of it.”

“I do not experience the conflict and anxiety of upset emotions, Master Arainai, I am tranquil.”

“You’re anxious enough to warn me, however.” The words smiled at him but Jylan considered it a flaw in progressive logic.

“I am not anxious, ser, but I am not ignorant of emotional distress in others. If you are decided then I will not withhold the answer.” Master Arainai considered his words in deep silence for several minutes, then interrupted the moment by standing and walking to the iron stove behind his desk. The front grate was opened, a split log inserted into the mouth, and then the elf walked back and reclaimed his place on the corner of his desk. He spoke with a firm, ready voice.

“What did the Templars do to Eadric Telaren?”

Jylan answered him.

“He was sexually exploited by a member of the Templar Order who claimed deep and earnest affection for him. The arrangement endured for several years but ended when Telaren was killed, and his Templar abandoned the Order presumably from his staggering grief over the matter.”

“How do you know about this?”

“When I became tranquil I was assigned the role of Templar Liaison because I am elven, and this fact inspired several veteran members of the order to recall and share the tale of the Knight Captain and his Gold-haired elf. I was often summoned for these tellings so that my physical appearance could be described in contrast with Mage Telaren’s. That many of Kinloch Hold’s Templars had seen Archmage Surana and knew of his connection to Telaren usually contributed to the description of his dead cohort.”

“They say the Knight Captain _loved_ him?”

“With much derision and little confidence, yes.” Jylan elaborated this point further: “There existed an age difference of some twenty or more years between the two of them, casting doubt on claims of mutual love. That Telaren was an apprentice made the story intolerable in Knight Commander Greagoire’s presence and he once had a junior Templar lashed for repeating the tale in his hearing. That Telaren was a mage and not one of the Tranquil caused further derision from others. His presumed suicide during the Blight was not often described as romantic, but as a product of either guilt or delusion.”

Master Arainai’s breaths were tight. He was taking slow, controlled breaths and letting them out with great control and tension. His hands were gripping the front edge of his desk, his ankles crossed but legs hanging stiff.

“What I am going to ask you now is not to leave this chamber, understood?”

“Yes, Master Arainai.”

“Did anyone know what was happening to Telaren _while it was happening_ , or only after?”

“I understood that the matter was treated much the same as if Telaren were to be made Tranquil: widely known but never spoken of.”

“Did the Templars ever, and I do mean _ever_ , so much as _imply_ , that the same thing happened to Surana?”

“With confidence I can say that no, Master Arainai, the Warden Commander of Ferelden was not sexually exploited by the Templars of Kinloch Hold.”

Master Arainai let out a slow, long, uncomfortable breath. His hands flexed to ease their grip, but he was shaking his head.

“May I ask where this confidence comes from?”

“Several junior Templars often made similar inquiries and were either hushed or laughed at. Surana was too ugly.”

“ _What?_ ” He was shocked again, the dimming daylight reflecting off his polished buttons. “I mean- _good_ , but- blond hair and blue eyes? He would not have had any of his scars yet- I do not know what he would have looked like in his adolescence but-? _Ugly?_ Are you quite serious?”

“In comparison to Mage Telaren, and based on the accounts of the Templars, then yes: Surana was considered plain and displeasing.” He ended his statement here, but Arainai was not satisfied, he gestured to ask if there was anything else to be said. Therefore, Jylan spoke: “His manners were too contrary; he did not speak or smile or play; his skin was pale and his hair was very white and the victim of clumsy scissors and dull knives which kept it short. He himself was very short, therefore it was occasionally stated that to touch him would have been to lay with a frozen, poorly tempered child. More flattering accounts of the Hero of Ferelden’s appearance usually served only to highlight Telaren’s comparable beauty.”

“I’m sorry for making you discuss so many awful things with me today…” Master Arainai’s second apology was abrupt and as unnecessary as the first one. “Maker, I knew the Circles could not have been how he always described them, but to have the reality be _so different_ from the stories is just… I almost do not want to ask this, but you were sent from the room last time and as much as I know I can infer, on this matter I would have it stated plainly. Compounder Ashera, forgive me for these painful memories, but were _you_ also abused in this way by the Circle?”

“I am not in pain, Master Arainai, I am tranquil.” It was necessary to make this statement first. “And no, as an apprentice I was not sought after or taken advantage of. As you stated a few moments ago Arl Surana follows an ideal for elves: he is blond, and pale, with blue eyes. The only comments made to me were before I was given the Rite of Tranquility: that it was unfortunate that they should choose an elf who did not match the ideal. I believe the final word on the matter was _‘The Maker Provides as the Maker Sees Fit’_. What followed only came after the completion of the Rite.”

“And because you were Tranquil they could pretend that their actions had no consequence?” There was a thickness in his voice, and the words were muffled by the fall of his fingers across his mouth.

“Consequences require an effect to follow an offending action. As their actions had no effect, no, there were no consequences.”

“I once thought as you do, that if I had no power or control over what was happening then the only inch I could keep for myself was to refuse to be hurt by it at all.” His statement betrayed a strong sense of intimacy: that he would imply a mutual trauma between them. Jylan was not unaware of the possible implications, of the act Master Arainai took of seeking to build an emotional bond, but it was a flawed effort. “That is not how you have to live, Ashera, not anymore.”

“You are not tranquil, Master Arainai.” Jylan told him, rebuffing the effort. “Mental and emotional fortitude may hold or fail you, but as you are not tranquil you do not understand the absence and ineffective nature of hurtful or harmful behaviour. Once an unpleasant event is passed it is done, and all that remains are lingering physical signs of exertion or discomfort which are easily mediated by rest and food.”

“It was-”

“I was not raped, ser.” Jylan interrupted him. “Rape would require a sense of violation or humiliation, neither of which affect me or are present. Rape would imply that what occurred was resisted, or unwanted, when I am incapable of forming desires and forbidden from resisting. If one cannot feel warm then one will never be cold. If one cannot feel love then one can never be lonely. If one cannot feel desire then one will never be compelled.”

“Sex is not hot and cold!” Arainai shouted at him, his temper quickly igniting as he dropped his feet and stood. The sudden volume of his voice was unpleasant. “Sex is not love- but it _is_ desire and the opposite of wanting something isn’t to just not want it, it’s to _refuse_! There is no middle ground with sex, Ashera, you either want it or it is rape. You either want your partner with you and on you or it is rape. You either agree or you are violated _and there is no way around that!_ ”

“It is apparent that this topic has inspired keen feelings of distress and a powerful but negative emotional reaction in you, Master Arainai. Therefore, it is necessary that I-”

“Don’t you dare weasel your way out of this! Look at me!”

“I will not engage with your aggression, ser.” He kept his eyes down.

“ _Look at me!_ ” Jylan stood, but he kept his eyes down. He would leave now. “Ashera!”

“I must return to the workshop.” He turned away and took a step, but his arm was snatched and pulled. He lost his balance and his weight rocked to his heels, turning him and nearly bringing him into a tumble but for Master Arainai’s harsh grip above his elbow. He was held fiercely and in a twisted position, his eyes directed up at the assassin’s angry gaze.

He had made a mistake: he had attempted to leave without being dismissed. He would be punished.

He would be struck, likely across the mouth. He would be pushed down the rookery stairs. He would be shaken and shoved, or his wrist and fingers would be painfully twisted to cause him great pain. He was not afraid of these things but he was aware of them. He was tranquil.

“It has to bother you,” Master Arainai stated in a hushed voice, still holding his arm tightly. The angle of the hold changed, began to relax and permitted him to stand properly again. He was not released, and Master Arainai was not calm. His eyes were searching Jylan’s face over and over, his eyes rimmed with red, teeth locked, and he gently began to shake his head. “It _has_ to.”

Jylan considered silence. If he permitted the quiet to hold Master Arainai then it was possible that he would release Jylan’s arm and allow him to leave. If he spoke, it risked instigating the expected violence.

Master Arainai’s grip began to loosen. When his hand left Jylan’s arm completely, he spoke:

“The only one who is capable of being bothered by this is you, Master Arainai.” He spoke softly, in a low voice, and held eye-contact with the deeply distressed elf in front of him. “I am tranquil, ser. Archmage Surana understands and may explain my condition in full to you at his leisure. May I return to my duties?” Arainai curled his lips into his mouth, pursed them until they turned white. Then he nodded and gestured with a hand for Jylan to leave.

He took that dismissal and went directly back to the workshop, his brother Samar, and his obligations to the keep. He did not discuss his conversation with Master Arainai.

* * *

 

“I had a talk with your _favourite Tranquil_ today.”

Soren frowned hard at him but Zevran did not keep the hurt sound from his voice. His friend dismissed the clerk he had been speaking to with a hand, and with a tight huff inclined his head for Zevran to walk through the corridor with him. Zevran accepted the offer, and fell in step beside his friend.

“I thought we were past this?” Soren asked him, walking to Zevran’s right so his pauldron’s high silver wing wasn’t in the way between them. “What did he tell you?”

“A lot more than you have.” Zevran was hurt, and he wanted it known, and he took just a touch more speed so that he was the one directing the two of them around the next corner, and up the right set of stairs. They came to an alcove with three lattice-woven windows, a view down into the Vigil’s gardens open to them through the bubbled glass. It was quiet and it was private and the cold seeping through the windows offered a coolness against Zevran’s cheek and throat that was welcome. “I know about Eadric.”

 Soren turned and rested his back against the window sill, folding his arms and crossing one ankle over the other in a very casual way. His armour caught the pale grey light and shimmered down the silverite weave of his tunic, his gauntlets tucked into his belt and the red of his scarred fingers bright where they held his arms. He shrugged and shook his head at the statement.

“Then why are we here?”

Zevran stepped right into his space, crowded him on purpose, and the act made Soren startle and look at him properly. No dismissive side-eye or half-lidded gaze. _Look at him_.

“Was he your friend?”

“What-? _Yes._ ” Soren dropped his arms and used his hands to push on the sill, regretting his casual lean now as Zevran stayed too close for him to climb out of it properly. “Zevran, yes he was. Stop this.”

“Did you _know_ what was happening to him?” Soren put a hand on his chest, braced it hard, and made Zevran take a step back so he could stand the way he wanted to. Zevran kept pushing on him however, refused to stop crowding him. “All those years- did you _know?_ ” _Answer him_.

“ _Yes_.” Soren’s voice was hard, but his eyes were all over the place. He would not look at Zevran’s face, he was looking at his shoulder, then his arm, then off down the stairs, then back to him but at the buttons down his chest. “Of course I knew, his bed was below mine.”

“ _Then why didn’t you help him!?_ ” It came out with the hateful blast of thunder and cold pain. Soren recoiled from his voice completely, his pauldron scraping the window when he jumped. “ _He was your classmate! Your friend!_ You knew what was happening and you did _nothing to help him!_ ”

“I did _not!”_ Soren shouted back at him, but it was thin and brittle like the glass behind him. “You have _no idea_ what you’re talking about- and neither does Ansera!” _Liar_.

Zevran grabbed him, _shook him_ , gave him a hard slam against the window and _held him like that_.

“He was elven and you _sold him out_ to the Templars,” Zevran accused with a black and _boiling_ hatred in his chest. “You said it yourself: who could want _icy little Surana_ when there was his golden-haired brother right below him in the dark? It benefited you! It kept them _away_ from you! You knew _and you let it happen!_ ”

“ _No-”_ The hundred things Soren could have done between his magic and the taint to get Zevran off of him never happened. Soren grabbed his wrists and tried to pull him off, but it was not enough. “Zevran- _stop_ -” He did not fight back because he was _guilty_. He was a _liar_. He’d _let it happen!_

“You treated him _exactly_ the same way you treated Jowan-” Backstabbed to further himself in the Circle, complete and utter betrayal just to curry favour with the First Enchanter. Soren’s reasons for Jowan’s anger with him had been hidden and ignored until the Guardian of Andraste’s Ashes had spat out the truth for them to hear, and now years later it was a Tranquil who brought Eadric’s story to light! “The same way you would feed _me_ to the dogs if you thought it would benefit you in some way!”

Soren’s hands dropped. He went limp and his eyes came up searching Zevran’s face. Let him feel blinded. Let him be shocked. It was only fair after what Zevran had learned today and what he had to put up with never knowing about the bastard in front of him.

That hurt look was _fake_ , like the rest of him!

The tug and peel of his thin lips- another fucking ruse!

The tears that- tears?

“I switched beds with him.” He was too proud for tears. They glistened but did not fall, the blue of his eyes veiled with pain, his jaws finding their place to lock as the muted tremble in his lips was reigned in by how tight he pulled them. His words were harsh things, barely spoken from the depths of his rattled chest. “After the Revered Mother bruised and broke my fingers for _slander_ against the Order. For _disrespecting_ a man so deeply committed to his holy calling for _my_ protection. _‘How dare you? How dare you? How dare you?’_ And when I was allowed out of the cell they put me in, and my fingers were put back together, and I _knew what was happening_ , Master Arainai, I switched beds with him.”

Zevran eased his grip, stopped pushing him against the window. It had taken _so much_ to break his silence and Zevran let his hands slowly fall from Soren’s armour.

“And then what happened?” He asked quietly, a cold thread of fear weaving through his lungs. Ansera had told him no, nothing had ever happened to Soren, but Ansera had only had heresay of Templars who had not been there to inform him. Soren’s eyes fell briefly to the collar of Zevran’s shirt, then shook and carried their way back up to gaze at him properly. He shook his head, gave a shrug.

“What? You think he couldn’t tell two knife-eared brats apart?” Soren asked him harshly, cutting at him on purpose. “I don’t remember what happened; I woke up in one of the Healers’ apartments with a scar beaten into my scalp. No one talked about it after that. It was _settled_ after that. I was thirteen years old, Zevran, and I did _everything I knew how_.” Thirteen-?

“Soren-”

“ _Get away from me_.” Vicious words hissed between his teeth, his eyes red and washed with those stubbornly held tears. He wasn’t angry enough to _be_ angry, it was a front Zevran had seen before but never to cover this emotion specifically. He realized it far too late: he’d _hurt_ him.

“Soren, I’m sorry-”

“No you’re not!” Soren escaped from the window but turned on him harshly before going a step further, teeth bare and fury colouring his cheeks, but his eyes were still _weeping_. “You’re just embarrassed because your _‘gotcha!’_ moment didn’t work! You’ll accuse me of stabbing you in the back when the only knives here are yours! Did I harass you over Rinna? Did I chase and yell at you about your fucking mother? _No!_ But who gives a damn about that when _you’ve_ got delusions of holding the moral high ground!”

“You’re not yourself-” Zevran pleaded and he regretted how he had brought them to this corner and not somewhere safe within the apartment’s private doors. “I had find answers, how can I _help you_ without _-?_ ”

“What good is having you around when I can’t trust you to _listen to a Maker-damned word_ I say!” Soren screamed over him and brought his anger to bear and shroud his pain. “You’re not helping me! You don’t _want_ to help me! All you’ve ever wanted is to keep your own skin safe, so now that there’s blood in the water you won’t stop biting _and biting_ until you’ve got enough of me left raw to control me how you like! You’ll go interrogating a _puppet_ that wouldn’t know the first sign of intrigue if you jammed a knife between his ribs, and Maker Preserve Us if you’ll stop and give a _single moment’s pause_ to wonder why I don’t want anything to do with this! This is how you wanted to hurt me?”

“ _No-_ ” he managed to croak only one word.

“Well _pat yourself on the back,_ Zevran!” Soren had wept. Only one tear from each eye, but it was still too much. His voice fell from its raw yelling to a vicious hiss meant to threaten and strike thin and lethal through his heart: “Now walk away before I can find a pack of dogs that can handle you.”

“ _Brother, I’m sorry,_ ” he pleaded back in his mother tongue, Antivan words that-

“ _I don’t give a damn!”_ Soren snarled back at him in the same tragic language. “ _I’m not Taliesen! I won’t be cut down just to prove you’re somehow better than me!”_ It _hurt_ -

“I’m sorry-” he choked again. He’d done enough damage; he should have gone to Morrigan first. He had made a mess of things. This was not how trust was meant to work. “Soren, I’m…”

Trust was when you told someone about a part of you that still ached sometimes, and knew they would not cut you again in the same place. Trust was the _willingness_ to say something, which Soren had not been and Zevran had not respected. Trust was agreeing not to open old wounds when starting a new fight, something _neither_ of them had done today.

Eadric; Jowan; Rinna; Taliesen; each name an old wound disrespected. Zevran had struck first. Maker, he wanted the words back.

It was Zevran’s turn to flee this time. He took his shame and the sharp way Soren pointed for him to walk away, and left.

He’d made a mess of this.

Maker Preserve Him, he’d made an _awful mess of this…_

* * *

 

The week resumed and Jylan was not called upon by Master Arainai or the Warden Commander again again. Instead, he received a letter from Guildmaster Owain regarding several matters of acquisition and business, penned most of his reply, but then neglected to complete and send the letter back to Amaranthine. He did not forget; he neglected it. He turned the duty aside and did not complete it.

Two days later a second letter arrived from Owain:

_With regards to correspondence dated the 24 th day of Harvestmere, 9:44 Dragon: it is pertinent to offer a reminder at times that extended periods of delay in correspondence may indicate a waylaid messenger or illegibility of the letter due to rain, fire, or other damage. In such instances, it is prudent for either party to submit a second copy of their correspondence and re-establish contact._

The following pages were a copy of the previous letter, the same one partially answered and folded into one of the locked drawers of the workshop. Jylan compared the two from the Guildmaster to ensure no additional information had been included or otherwise changed. He then withdrew his unfinished reply from the same drawer and re-read it, reminding himself of the unwise wording half-way down the third page which had halted him from replying the first time. He had truthfully, but unwisely, made mention of his period of struggle and the words had become ungainly and difficult to order beyond that point. He was not certain the struggle had completely resolved itself, he was uncertain of how to proceed with correcting his improper behaviour, he did not know how to complete the letter.

If he did not make his response properly, then the Guildmaster may deem it appropriate to recall Jylan from Vigil’s Keep: something he had been commanded by An’eth not to facilitate. However, he was not prepared to lie. He had not yet decided if his response regarding guild business would simply omit any mention of Owain’s statement: _‘The guild has been made aware of noteworthy conflicts between your posting and the Chantry of Vigil’s Keep. Please provide elaboration of this matter.’_ If it was omitted, it would only serve to delay the matter of exposition. If it was answered incorrectly then he would be recalled to Amaranthine. If it was answered tactfully, nothing would change.

They were tranquil: neither Jylan nor Guildmaster Owain possessed the social grace of tact.

As he was now obligated to reply to the new letter and not the old one, Jylan fed the old pages to the fire. He withdrew fresh parchment, ink, and the smooth brass-nib pen from Connor’s writing supplies and copied the new letter from Owain in proper guild fashion. He would send this new letter with its reminder back to the Guildmaster along with his reply to facilitate the process of record keeping.

He completed copying the letter before turning aside from writing and completing the task of setting two batches of soap, finishing the extraction process on a batch of blood lotus, and then shredded and pickled a vat of elfroot. Jylan ended his day when Samar and Dirth returned from an extended walk around the keep just before the evening bell.

He dined with his brother, returned the hound to the kennel, escorted Lady Rowan to the keep’s gardens until the twilight grew too dim and cold for her spell-work, and then retired for the evening.

The next day, after the morning and afternoon bells had passed, a third letter arrived from Amaranthine:

_Persistent delays of correspondence are an unusual and therefore noteworthy change in behavior. Respond at once by the 28 th Day of Harvestmere; tomorrow, before additional steps become necessary to re-establish contact._

The words were not intended as a threat however there was a looming sense of urgency over the two simple lines sandwiched between Jylan’s address and Owain’s signature and seal.

“You okay?” Samar inquired from his seat at the end of the worktable. To stave off his boredom Jylan’s brother had acquired a set of blank paper cards and whittled himself a thin stylus from discarded wood. The ink he used was the residue from a previous batch of black ink, and he made delicate, careful marks with the stylus. He was building himself a new deck of cards for when he inevitably returned to sea, and the work kept him in a pleasant mood throughout his hours of lingering in the workshop.

Samar also became better acquainted with Mistress Valora, Lady Rowan, and Warden Velanna at the close of his third week in Vigil’s Keep. The women were not present this morning.

 “Yes.” Jylan’s answer was preceded by a period of silence that had violated social custom. “I have been remiss in my duties to the guild, but it will not take long to rectify the matter.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“Not unless you desire to return to Amaranthine City to deliver a letter to the Guildmaster.”

“I could check up on my ship,” Samar entertained the idea with more thoughtfulness than Jylan expected. “You finally ready to ask them about what was troubling you last week?”

“No.” This time his answer proceeded far too quickly for him to consider properly first. Samar frowned at him but offered no criticism of this announcement.

“Well, you get whatever it is written and I’ll get it there. Any chance I could get a horse or hitch a ride on a wagon for it though? _Walking._ ” The journey to Amaranthine City was considered a day-long trek on foot, a half-day by wagon, or a little less by a cantering horse or team-pulled carriage.

“A horse would not be unreasonable.”

However, before he could complete his letter to Amaranthine, the lonesome, feathered song of a deep horn reverberated through the keep. It was unexpected and noteworthy for what it signalled: the return of a Grey Warden company.

It was not An’eth.

At the time of Connor’s departure from Vigil’s Keep, several other companies had also left on errands to Antiva City and the seats of the other Warden Commanders of Thedas. Among the members who sailed to Antiva was Warden Sephri once of the Starkhaven Circle of Magi.

Jylan was not overly acquainted with Warden Sephri, but she entered his workshop later that afternoon with the ceramic, glass, and wooden pots from her company’s duties in Antiva. Each one was clean and in good condition, and the lids were all accounted for. The few which had been lost or broken the Grey Warden had taken the liberty of replacing.

“Thank you for your considerations.”

“You do enough work without having to chase us Wardens for simple housekeeping duties.” Warden Sephri was human with a dark Rivaini complexion, ropes of black hair and smooth cheeks and thin dark brows. Her left eye and down her cheek were bleached white in a starburst pattern; some kind of scar Jylan had never inquired after. The event had left her eye itself undamaged, though the long black lashes of the one eye were not equal on the scarred one. She was equal to him in height and came to the workshop after cleaning and resting herself from her long journey, dressed in many folds and twists of wrapped white and purple-slashed fabric. She wore trousers and a woven shirt to protect herself from the cold, but the robe was her main garment and she wore it with comfortable pride.

Connor and others had claimed repeatedly that Warden Sephri was unfriendly and standoff-ish. Jylan’s experiences with her did not match this description, but his interactions with people rarely carried through how other people expected. She smiled to him cheerfully, introduced herself to his brother in a friendly manner, and then thanked Jylan for his enduring work.

“Are you properly taken care of without Warden Guerrin around?” She did not ask him if he was emotionally unsettled or make any reference at all towards things which did not affect him.

“Yes, Warden Sephri. I am well.”

“What about that nasty business I heard about you and the Chantry? Is it resolved?”

“I have not been updated on the situation. As I have not received commands from the Seneschal to resume fulfilling requisitions for the Vigil’s chantry, it is prudent to assume the matter remains outstanding.”

“You and I are not in the Circles anymore, Compounder.” She folded her arms and adjusted her weight with a swing of her hips, chewing the inside of one dark lip for a moment. “Is reasonable for me to expect you to come to me if you encounter any further conflicts with the Chantry?”

“If that is what you desire and you feel your presence would be beneficial under such circumstances, then yes.”

“How-” Samar’s head came up from his cards at this point, and he blinked repeatedly before focusing on Warden Sephri and speaking to her. “How did you do that? You just got through to him in five minutes, when I’ve been asking the same thing for _weeks_.”

“Did you ask him if he _wanted_ your help or if he thought your help would actually mean anything?” Warden Sephri asked Samar, then looked at Jylan again. “I’m not trying to belittle you, I just know it’s easier to speak factually of things especially when they might be difficult for you, Compounder.”

“You are correct in this assumption, Warden Sephri.” It was a matter of some relief to have Warden Sephri returned to Vigil’s Keep.

“But _how?_ ” Samar complained again.

“I used to work with the Tranquil when I lived in the Starkhaven Circle,” Sephri explained. She had been a facilitator; in charge of making sure the Tranquil who had serviced Starkhaven’s mages and magi quarters had done their jobs efficiently and well. She had spent a period of three years in the Kirkwall Circle trying to do the same job there before the murder of the Grand Cleric and Annulment of that Circle, but had experienced only the hardship and oppression of the Kirkwall Templars.

Jylan had first been made aware of, but had not met, Warden Sephri when she had arrived in Amaranthine City with twenty half-starved Tranquil from the Free Marches, all of them seeking refuge in the fledgling guild hall. The mage herself had continued on to Vigil’s Keep, but only after seeing her charges settled under Guildmaster Owain’s guidance.

“You learn to change how you talk to people like you brother, Master Ashera.” She continued now, speaking with a hand on her waist and the other one playing with the violet hem of her ruffled robes. “He’s not stupid, none of them are, but if you wanted to ask me a question about magic then you wouldn’t start by blithering on about what you had for dinner last night. When speaking to a Tranquil, you should only ask about what’s _relevant_ to the matter at hand, not get yourself tied up about feelings and wanting.”

“I can’t say I’m too fond of that word some days…” His brother grumbled in a petulant way, but then softened and warmed up again with a small smile. “Any chance I could ask you to help out if he starts acting squirrely the way he does sometimes?”

“ _What?_ ” Sephri pulled a face at him, frowning with her lips curled in marked distaste. “I… suppose so? Compounder, what is he referring to?” Ah, it was perhaps not as fortunate as previously implied that Warden Sephri had returned.

“I experienced a pronounced period of struggle earlier this month,” he replied, aware that Sephri would understand the implication behind that statement. And she did: the Warden displayed an automatic sense of shock. “I described it to him as a sensation similar to drowning.”

“Did you send word to the guild?” She asked. “They should have sent someone to be with you, or you could have taken leave and gone home.”

“No, I did not.”

“Next time then,” she admonished him rather than berate him for previous inaction. The event had passed, it was over, and he was restored in most capacities. “I’ll leave you to your work, Compounder. Master Ashera, _yes_ , if he starts acting… what was it? Squirrely, you said? If he begins to act strangely again then come and find me in the Warden quarters. Otherwise, I’ll leave you two to your day. Compounder.”

“Warden Sephri.” Jylan crossed his wrists and inclined his head to her, then resumed his work. He was only moments into his next task when Samar spoke up from the table.

“She’s _awfully_ pretty.” Jylan considered this statement before answering.

“Yes.” Warden Sephri was very beautiful.

“When’s yours coming back though? It’s been a fortnight.”

“It is difficult and often futile to estimate the exact time of a Grey Warden company’s return to Vigil’s Keep.”

“Okay… are you going to work on that letter?”

“Not presently, no.”

He resumed his duties, and neglected to answer his letter.

 

 


	22. Three Strikes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is outrageously long but this is what happens when I say “I will not end this until [plot point] is reached”. I mean I reached the plot point but what a road to get there.
> 
> There’s a sex scene lower down, like, way lower down. For readers who are uncomfortable the moment you really really should be aware of can be jumped to by Ctrl+F to “compli-!?”, because that interro-bang is only used once.

 

Jylan posted a letter with his brother’s aid to Amaranthine the morning it was due at the guild hall. The letter contained a copy of Guildmaster Owain’s correspondence, and his reply of:

_To: Guildmaster Owain of the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine._

_Forty pounds at the stated value will suffice._

_-Regards, Compounder Second Class Jylan Ansera. Harvestmere 27 th, 9:44 Dragon._

That evening the horn atop the keep bellowed low and loud through the creeping twilight. Another Grey Warden company had returned home, and Jylan set this information aside as inconsequential to his evening routine of cleaning and preparing the workshop for tomorrow. He did not inquire as to who had returned, or linger in the common areas of the keep after the evening meal was served to the fortress workers, himself included. He took his hot portion of salted pork and mint-stewed potatoes and ate in a quiet corner of the servant’s mess hall, taking his pint of beer and water in deep gulps to expedite the process.

He went immediately to his chamber and locked the door, distracting his idle fingers with several meticulous rows of fine stitches in black and amber thread. He lit only a single candle, causing his eyes to strain with the work, but additional light would have bled out from under the door and that would run contrary to his intentions. When he had developed a headache and become sufficiently fatigued for sleep, he undressed very quietly and retired for the night.

Twenty-one push-ups, thirty sit-ups. Prepare the fire, fetch his breakfast, ready the requisitions, a gentle knock on the workshop door.

_No._

“Good morning…” An’eth was leaning in through the doorway, a small smile and a softness in her quiet voice that conveyed mild hesitation. She appeared very tired, her short hair lacking its small braids and her eyes drawn tight with dark circles under them. An’eth wore a warm vest of cut Dalish furs and a thick white woolen shirt, heavy trousers and sturdy boots keeping her cozy. She entered the workshop with a large canvas satchel hanging from her wrist, and a pronounced limp.

He did not find himself compelled to greet her, but her discomfort offered an alternative to silence.

“You are injured.”

“I’m on the better side of it,” she answered, keeping her smile and trudging forward. “Still a little sore, but thank you for worrying.” He had not worried, merely made a statement so as to receive clarification. “Are you well?”

“I am unchanged, Warden.”

“That’s good, I think?” She offered a soft laugh, then looked to the table with his basket and deliveries nearly ready for distribution. An’eth lifted the satchel and placed it on the table, it was full but not heavy. “These are for the workshop, I hope they’re useful.”

The deliveries required his attention, but as it may shorten the length of her visit with him, Jylan pulled the drawstring bag open. The first thing he noticed was the acrid, burning stink of lyrium and then the pale blue glow of twisted, ugly tendrils: deep mushrooms. He would require his gloves to handle these properly without letting the blue enzymes soak into his skin. Deep mushrooms were highly reactive and an excellent catalyst for several explosive and medicinal recipes, but they were not easily handled. There was a wrapped leather parcel on top of the mushrooms and Jylan removed this from the bag, noting as well that there were assorted plants further inside: ghoul’s beard and perhaps some elfroot.

“I _know_ those are important,” An’eth explained, indicating the leather as she stood next to him. She was leaning against his arm and looking down with him as he worked. The twine binding the parcel shut was easily untied, and the leather was opened. Inside there were supple dark green leaves and thick stems capped with delicate necks and the softest white petals blooming from oil-gorged pods. Snowdrops. A considerable bundle.

“These are important, and the remainder are very useful as you had intended. Thank you, An’eth.” He remained focused on the flowers but was aware of her hand reaching around to his face, and the way she kissed his cheek on the side closest to her.

“One of the many benefits of having a skilled and capable hunter for a lover, hmm?” She sounded very pleased and tucked herself close to him, but did not pull him from the act of reviewing the flower heads. He noted the clean cut across the base of each stem: a demonstration of proper harvesting technique. “You’re welcome.”

“I will process these into their most advantageous forms after I have completed the morning deliveries.”

“Then I will let you do that,” she commented, taking a deep breath against him before edging away from. The space allowed him to see her better if he chose to look at her, which he did not. “But I did have- there’s something I wanted to say.”

“Is it regarding the nature or extent of your injuries?” As Acting Apothecary, any medicines or poultices she required for her recovery would come from this workshop.

“No, but we can talk about it later when you aren’t busy, just so you know everything.” He resumed packing the basket with the morning’s requisitions. He was not yet considered late; there were only four deliveries today. “Later is actually part of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Will this discussion run beyond the time permitted by my early-morning duties? I trust that you are too unwell to walk with me about the fortress.” She did not answer him right away; he did not look at her as he double-checked the requisition list.

“I… would _love_ to walk with you, _vhenan_ , thank you, but I don’t think that’s wise.” Then she would not accompany him and he would depart shortly. “It won’t take long; will you look at me?” She spoke gently but he completed his check before permitting himself to face her as requested. An’eth took his hands in hers, a gesture meant to focus his attention on her. She took a deep breath and her lips twitched with a bit of a smile, then she met his gaze and spoke to him.

“I _know_ that you don’t feel embarrassed by things, but _I_ do and I know that I rushed us before I left.” Perhaps she would end the relationship between them here, but he considered that outcome unlikely. “I just- I was enthusiastic, but taking off for so long immediately afterwards left me with a lot to think about. I skipped something that I _really_ want us both to have with each other, and I want to make it up to you.”

“If it will ease any anxiety which may otherwise negatively impact your recovery, An’eth, then I will not refuse.” He was not entirely clear on the nature of her meaning, but understood her expression of regret over their sexual encounters. Perhaps she intended to postpone any further uses of him? That she considered her affections for him to be genuine was quite obvious, although she still seemed unable to grasp that her feelings were not returned.

“ _Thank you_ ,” she sighed the words with a smile, her thumbs rubbing warmly across the backs of his hands. “Tomorrow is the day of rest and you won’t have to get up as early, so tonight- Jylan, I’m asking you to come sleep with me.” Oh.

Reluctance was no excuse for resistance.

“Very well, but I do not understand what in this arrangement constitutes a change.” He told her. “We have already slept together twice.” This claim startled her and An’eth’s cheeks began to turn very pink.

“I- I mean to come and _share the bed_ with me, Jylan…” That did not clarify the matter.

“I understand both phrases to serve the same function.” Her blush and anxiety both increased in severity. “Or do you not intend them as euphemisms for sex?”

“No!” She hushed him, dropped his hands and then walked directly into him for a hug which hid her face from him, her words muffled by his shoulder and chest. “No, I don’t. I mean _sleep._ I mean warm and comfortable and _in bed_ , to _sleep,_ because I _missed you…_ ”

His sense of reluctance was reduced. It was not the termination of the relationship he knew would ultimately resolve the matter between them, but it was an adjustment which he considered more agreeable. In light of this change, he brought one arm around her back and held where An’eth was pressing close to his body, imparting the sense of comfort she clearly desired from him. The Warden gave a warm sigh and nuzzled her face into his shoulder, but he only stroked his other hand down her shoulder and back once before speaking.

“I must complete my morning tasks, An’eth.”

“I know… _okay_ ,” she grumbled to him, deeply reluctant to pull away with her grasping fingers and sleepy eyes. “So you’ll come tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t eat then, I mean- don’t eat _a lot_. Have maybe half your dinner before you come.”

“I do not understand.” His meals were provided from the kitchens with little regard for portion size beyond consistency for all members of the fortress’ working staff.

“I have the ingredients for something _special_.” She smiled and Jylan expected her to kiss him when she rolled onto her toes and stretched up to him, but she rubbed the end of her nose to his instead and it was comfortably benign. “So eat a little bit and _then_ come up to the Warden Quarters. And- and leave these robes behind. Everyone knows this uniform you wear, but I don’t think as many will notice if you’re just in a tunic and trousers.” The expectation of secrecy remained, it was not his place to question why.

“Very well.” He complied with her and _this time_ she kissed him, unexpected but brief. She departed soon after.

His morning resumed. Nothing of consequence occurred. He was given a fish and egg pie by Mistress Valora for his lunch. Dirth complained miserably about a clipped hang-nail on his paw that the Kennelmaster said was not of consequence: the hound merely desired attention. Samar was not expected to return until tomorrow.

Warden Sephri visited him briefly before lunch with Warden Lavellan. The two mages had encountered a disagreement concerning their magic and had given each other resounding headaches from expended mana. Jylan prepared a mild solution of processed lyrium and poured the glowing blue potion into two small cups which the mages swallowed without verbal complaint, but very animated physical reactions. Warden Lavellan did not stop curling his tongue over and over in his mouth until Jylan provided him with a cured elfroot leaf to suck on, the Dalish mage nodding to him in thanks once the sour herb was in place. Sephri opted for a small lick of honey, administered with a wooden tongue depressor, and she left humming and laughing at the faint green tinge on Lavellan’s lips.

Jylan portioned half the deep mushrooms brought to him by An’eth after lunch, but was interrupted when three workmen came in carrying their fourth companion inside with the stink of burning flesh and fabric wreathed around his leg and one arm up to the elbow. As he was not a medic Jylan was not qualified to deal with this matter without assistance, but one of the workmen was easily capable of fleeing the workshop in search of Warden Velanna.

Cold water, elfroot poultice, embrium petals, an abundance of clean linen bandages, and Velanna’s confident hands set the matter right. The human man was lifted off the table again and carried home with his limbs numbed by herbs and the deepest of the damage soothed by the modest application of magic.

Velanna also crouched and cast a dousing spell over Dirthamen’s foot, only to then admonish the hound for his incessant and non-stop whining throughout the day when there was truly nothing wrong with his toe. The dog sulked and would not be consoled by her lecturing. Jylan was not affected by the persistent noise even after Velanna left.

Lady Rowan visited briefly, complained of the smell the burned man had left behind, and departed to spend the late afternoon with her horses instead. Jylan was occupied with scrubbing the bloodstains from Connor’s table and floor. The workshop was clean by the evening bell, and locked up soundly for tonight and tomorrow.

He returned Dirthamen to the Kennelmaster, but the hound’s poor temperament did not ease. In fact, it grew noticeably worse as the hound set his ears back and fussed excessively about being put back in his crate. When the Kennelmaster spoke to the dog directly and told Dirth he would be fed and then taken for a brisk run about the fortress, the mabari snapped at him and drew blood.

Jylan, who had not spoken throughout the Kennelmaster’s interactions with the animal, interceded at this necessary point.

“Enough.” Many words were available to him but in order to communicate himself efficiently with an animal Jylan did not employ many of them. At the sound of his voice, the animal ceased growling and pulled his front legs together, crouching without aggression. “Samar is not here; you will stop.” One could not reason with an animal, dogs did not understand logical arguments or consequences. They only knew threats. They knew insults. “Foul beast.”

Dirth recoiled from him in a very complete way, backing up shamefully and opening his mouth with a shrill, heaving noise of distress.

“To your cage.” The hound retreated, swung his head wide to look for the open door of his kennel, and backed inside. It was intolerable of the animal to attack the only person in the keep capable of taking proper care of him. Once Dirthamen was inside, Jylan approached the door and swung it shut, ensuring the simple lock mechanism was securely latched before turning to the Kennelmaster. The hound would not stop shrieking through the bars once his back was turned.

“I apologize for the violence, Kennelmaster.” He spoke over the dog’s yelps and cries. “The hound has grown accustomed to my brother’s attention over these past weeks and now seems committed to misbehaviour without him.”

“That’s a bit of a harsh assessment, wouldn’t you say?” The Kennelmaster was holding his wounded hand very tightly, a deep puncture mark weeping bright blood across the back of his hand. He looked down at the wound with a shaky breath and flexed his fingers. “Tis not a bad bite, Compounder, no need for rough words with him. If any dog here really wanted to hurt me I’d be missing everything and again what went into his mouth.”

“I would know if he bites you or any of your assistants again.” Dirth gave another painful shriek. The Kennelmaster looked past Jylan to the hound for several seconds, then looked at him with a suggestion of immediate concern.

“Is everything alright with you, Compounder? That dog’s worried, he’s-”

“I would know if the animal bites you or any of your assistants again, Kennelmaster.” Jylan interrupted him. The human stared at him for several more seconds, then drew himself up to his full height with anger pulling down his face.

“Now you listen to me, you rat-nosed bastard,” the kennelmaster spoke as if to threaten him and summarily wasted his breath in the process. “I don’t give a damn what short-sighted nonsense brought a mabari into an elf’s care but I’ll absolutely _not_ have you stressing a war-hound like that because you ain’t got nothing left between those feathers you call ears! Pure ingratitude is all you’ve got for him. He’s a _mabari_ , you scolded him, now sooth him before I knock your teeth in.”

“I do not see how assaulting me will endear you to the animal in question when it is theoretically compelled by its imprint to react in my defense.”

“A _fucking waste_ is all that bond is with how you talk about it!”

“If the animal is defective, then destroy it.”

Crimson blasted over his vision and his orientation vanished. He regained awareness from the ground where he was held up on one elbow, his hand pressed to shield the side of his face where the blow had landed. He did not feel pain from the punch or the fall, he knew only that it had come suddenly and-

-was repeated into his gut. The force flipped him away from the blow and his arms instinctively wrapped around the point of pressure and faded pain. He could not breathe, his eyes were closed, his ears were ringing loudly with the howls and mad barking of several hounds.

“Fucking _knife-ear.”_ The Kennelmaster’s voice reached him through the din because that was the sound that would indicate any further experience of violence. He found footsteps, heard them trail away from him, knew items were moving on one of the tables in the kennel. He opened his eyes and blinked several times, drew a weak breath that caught and kicked back out of him, then pushed his arm down into the dirt so he could begin to stand. “You ever dare speak ill of your betters again, elf, and it’ll be the whip for you. Get out of my kennel.”

Winded and unsteady, he left. When he was enveloped in the dim torchlight of the fortress again and well away from the howling echoes of the kennel, he permitted himself to stop and lean on one of the cold stone walls. His arm remained around his gut, but as he stood there he slowly regained the ability to draw deep, even breaths. There was a crawling sense of hurt along his cheek and the curve of his eye, and the pain intensified when he touched it firmly, but he could not be certain of a bruise.

Tranquil were not permitted to engage in conflict, but he had not been aware of the moment to diffuse tension or to back down from the Kennelmaster: he had simply not been paying proper attention. Elves could not voice their opinions openly when they ran contrary to those of a human or a superior. That the Kennelmaster was not his direct superior was irrelevant, Jylan was only _Acting_ Apothecary and he was elven. Silence was always the acceptable recourse and he did not understand his own persistence.

He knew better. He had acted inappropriately on two counts. He would not misstep again.

When he had regained control of his breathing and ability to walk properly, he straightened from the wall and continued on. His gut ached.

He collected his dinner from the servant’s mess hall, but only ate half the mashed potatoes, dark gravy, and roasted autumn greens. That the side of his face hurt when he chewed made it easier to abandon the meal half-way through, regardless of his sense of hunger. He had been told not to eat too much. The servant he returned the bowl to exclaimed softly over the unfinished portion and used his name when asking after his health, but Jylan merely replied with a quiet _‘thank you_ ’ and left.

He returned to his room and as instructed stripped off his blue and white robes, draping the white one across the end of his bed so that he could launder the stained sleeves and trodden hem tomorrow. The blue one did not need washing and was returned to its hook. As he felt cold without his usual layers of clothing, he opened his drawers and withdrew a thick woolen tunic, one of only two he owned, and pulled the deep burgundy wool over his head, smoothing it down his shirt.

His gut hurt from the kick and his hunger, but he did not crawl into bed and he would not ignore a summons from Warden Athras a second time. He left his ring in its box and locked his chamber door, keeping his keys at the belt of his tunic. He felt tired. He doubted his black bangs would obscure the brand should anyone look at him directly.

No one looked at him directly.

He moved through the settling underbelly of the fortress until he found the short flight of stairs and the open servant’s door into the Warden mess hall. He made an immediate turn from the doorway and went up a flight of stairs to the second floor, the balcony lined with doors to private rooms. The Wardens were loudly enjoying their meal below him, the rattle of dice and the thump of throwing knives and loud boasting filling the great hall along with laughter and broken lines of song. Wardens seldom ate in silence at Vigil’s Keep.

Jylan found An’eth’s door and stopped well before it. The door was open, but it was also filled with two standing bodies. Warden Lavellan, although only recognizable at second glance, was at the door without his armour, robes, or staff. His black hair was swept free from its braids and then looped back with only a single loose cord of leather, folded pelts of white fur and soft blue wool overlapping down his body to warm him comfortably in the ambient din rising to the balcony. Next to him stood another tattooed Dalish elf, a much younger man closer to Jylan’s own age, who was bouncing excitedly on his bare toes. Dalish boots with the heels and toes cut away laced up his calves to his knees, deep red fabric pleated and twisted around him in a Dalish style still distinct from Lavellan or Athras, and the elf’s fair corn-yellow hair was roughly chopped around his ears to make him look younger still. The younger, unfamiliar elf was a Warden by the silverite bracer still strapped to his left arm, and the ornate sheathes of the two daggers through his belt.

Standing opposed to both of them was An’eth, scowling, with the door clearly braced in its half-open position to prevent the two other Wardens from entering.

“It’s _not for you_ ,” An’eth stated petulantly, sticking her bottom lip out at Lavellan.

“ _Lethallan,”_ the mage purred to her, “I cannot in good conscious let such a smell invade the entire quarter without getting a taste of it for myself.”

“Please!” The younger elf cried. “Please? _Please?_ Oh please, I can’t take it…”

“Do I have the Dread Wolf nipping at my heels tonight? No!”

Jylan turned away from the discussion. To walk through it would encourage both Wardens to look at him and recognize him, and he understood that this was not something An’eth wished to have happen. He had made two mistakes tonight already, he would not permit a third one. He turned away, and as there was nothing to engage with on the balcony itself, he moved to the railing looking down over the mess hall. The bickering behind him faded.

Even up here the smell of roasted meats and dripping fat was distinct, teasing his hunger although his own unfinished meal had been cooked in the dripping-pans of the same broiled chops and flanks gracing the tables below. The flavours and fats carried over, but the meat itself rarely escaped.

The servants’ food in Vigil’s Keep was noticeably better than the Amaranthine guild hall’s, but the guild had been significantly better again than the gruel and boiled vegetables served to the Tranquil within the Circles. The only times in his life that Jylan recalled biting into a cut of freshly cooked meat were evenings shared with Connor, who had insisted on sharing from the Warden table while Jylan aided him in his studies.

“ _Fine!_ ” An’eth’s voice erupted behind him, followed by a slew of _el’vhen_ that resulted in both Lavellan and the younger Warden laughing and jeering to each other. Jylan kept his eyes on the tables far below him. The conversation died and then resumed with An’eth’s brisk voice. “Now enough, _dareth shiral_ to you both, go eat those somewhere else.”

“Syliase blessed us all when she sent you here. But what’s this? No _ise’haurasha?”_

“ _That_ I know you can brew yourself, _Hahren_.”

“ _Maferramas, fifter-_ ”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full, Tessan, you’ll choke.”

“ _If fo good fough…”_

“Thank you, now go. _Go away_.”

“What is this?” Lavellan asked with a laugh, but also the abrupt pause and silence of someone who was chewing. “Who are you waiting for?”

“Not you!”

“Can I have another one?”

“No, Tessan.”

“ _Please?_ ”

“I’m going to go back inside, and when I come back I’m either going to have another one for you or I’m going to have my shield, also for you.”

“I’ll take those odds,” Warden Tessan boasted. “You put ground almonds in yours and that’s worth losing a few teeth over. Where did you even _find_ almonds?”

“I’m closing the door now, Tessan.”

“ _Ma serannas,_ An’eth.” Warden Lavellan’s low voice cut in smoothly. “ _Lethallin_ , I believe you owe me a game of cards downstairs. If Warden Athras will not honour her elders with a steaming cup of _ise’haurasha,_ then perhaps _you_ will prove more courteous.”

“I…” An’eth’s voice fell into a harsh, heavy sigh. “I will make you some tomorrow, _Hahren_. Thank you.”

“But who are you waiting for?”

“Come, Tessan. Goodnight, _Lethallan._ ”

“But-”

“Goodnight…”

 The two Wardens left with more chatter and light-hearted exchanges. Jylan remained at the railing looking down in the mess hall below him. One of the tables had begun a loud chant, pints of ale and beer banging heartily on the wood, words tumbling over each other in a rolling echo that lost meaning, but held its rhythm. The Warden Commander was present among his Wardens and wearing his armour, and Warden Constable Oghren Kondrat was loud and boisterous beside him. The Commander’s presence was likely the reason for the loud song. When Jylan saw Warden Lavellan and Warden Tessan mix and mingle with their brothers-in-arms, he permitted himself to step back and away from the edge.

He turned and An’eth was looking at him, gazing quietly out from where she was half-hidden behind her bedroom door. There was something very quiet about her, and the one hand he could see beckoned him softly with her curled fingers.

He complied, and when he reached the door she pulled him gently through into a place of great warmth and rich aroma. The latter firmly caught his attention, but his eyes were overwhelmed first.

The fire in An’eth’s hearth was burning a deep red color, splashing the walls with steady folds of crimson light. The red was heightened by the Dalish lamps he had seen before, but never experienced lit in the dark. The furs, rugs, and trophies remained very similar, but not the same: she had pulled the mattress off her bed and laid it on the floor, using the foot of the bed and two chests to form walls that were now piled with pillows and blankets. The hearthstones and the floor just before it were the source of the smell.

Spicy, savoury, heavy and almost meaty. The warm aroma filled his nose and down his throat, something sweet teasing the very end of it but the peppery heat filled it too fast to follow. There were traces of flour and several jars both open and twisted shut on the floor, an iron camping skillet resting near the fireplace grate. A bowl still holding a portion of unused batter was near to it, next to the elegant samovar that was steaming gently next to the flames. A basket covered in soft linen was resting at the foot of the bed. The smell was coming from there.

“I’m sorry about all that,” An’eth spoke in a hushed voice. “I… made a Dalish recipe for us, but I _forgot_ that some people don’t know how to make it for themselves, and they came scavenging.” The food smelled very good. He did not know what it was, but ideally it would satisfy his nagging hunger and help ease the lingering soreness in his chest.

“I am not certain why your bed has fallen on the floor, but it appears deliberate.” There were too many blankets thrown over the chests and mattress for it to all be accidental. An’eth’s pouting mutters vanished and she walked up to him with a kind smile, holding his arm with one hand and slipping the other arm behind him.

“It is. Here, take your shoes off. Have you ever been inside a Dalish aravel?”

“No.” He had never seen a Dalish camp or one of their well-known landships.

“Well, they’re not very big inside but the ones each family has are _cozy_. I miss the walls and the furs in my father’s aravel, his censer with pine gum burning for Sylaise. I always find human beds a bit too exposed, so when I get homesick, I do this.”

He removed his shoes and left them outside the fortification of blankets and pillows. His feet sank into the mattress and his balance would not hold if he were expected to walk about in the small space, but An’eth settled on her haunches right away and he lowered himself as well.

“ _This_ ,” An’eth said, creeping forward and fetching two cups from the floor near her fire, “Is called _ise’haurasha_ , or _fire-honey_.” She poured a stream of amber liquid from the samovar, the tall urn with its spout and closed top. “Rose hip, a bit of cloves, a lot of honey, and some embrium petals. I don’t like mine too sweet, so if this isn’t strong enough for you then I can add more.” He accepted the cup from her and it was steaming gently, but smelled sweet and full-bodied. The richness from the spices under his nose overpowered the peppery aroma of whatever had cooked in the pan, and he drank slowly to allow the tea to flow through his mouth and across his pallet.

“…Do you like it?”

“I cannot comment on the strength of the drink, but I find it very agreeable.” He swallowed from it again and An’eth held out her hand for the cup. He handed it back to her and she refilled it with more, gesturing for him to come to the edge of the soft mattress where she placed the cup down. He complied and watched her take the top off three of the jars, lifting each one for him to see.

“This is made with fermented Halla milk,” she explained of a white, creamy jar. It was not butter or cheese, and had a faintly sour smell. “This was the reason I wanted to make this meal for you, I was able to get the milk while in the Wending Wood. And this is…”

“Mustard.” She beamed at him, but with the brilliant colour of the paste it would have been few other things.

“ _This_ is spicy, so be careful with it.” The last jar was red, and indeed when she held it up and he made the mistake of bringing it too close to his face, the scent burned and his eyes quickly teared up. It did not seem safe to eat. “I tried it for the first time when I was in the Free Marches, so now when I go to Amaranthine when the ships from Rivain and Antiva are in port, I try to get a little bit more. You won’t need more than a pinch for the whole meal.”

“I believe I will abstain.”

“Or you could do that,” she laughed, but then her smile tightened and her explanation of the meal stopped. “Jylan, did something happen to your face?”

“Yes, but it is no cause for concern.” She did not look from him or make to resume her explanation. He sought to distract her: “You put substantial effort into this meal, An’eth, it would not do to let it grow cold.”

“But are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“I have some elfroot still in my gear, one of your poultices.”

“If you believe it necessary then I will not dissuade you. However, I am not currently in pain.” She struggled to rise, heaving a painful breath and holding a hand to her hip as she did so, but persisted and left the bed. She returned a few moments later with a familiar glass jar of poultice and sat down next to him, unscrewing the top and smearing some of the rich cream onto her thumb. Her fingertips tilted his chin so the firelight shone on his face, and she was gentle in her application of the healing salve. It went from the end of his eyebrow down nearly to his cheek, then swept carefully under his eye and across his cheek bone. After applying it thickly, An’eth then rubbed small circles with her thumb to work the cream into the forming bruise. His face was tender where she touched him. When she was done, he opened his eyes again and found her gazing at him with somber worry.

“Thank you, An’eth.”

“Here, let’s eat something.” The subject did not change cleanly, but it was changed. The basket was pulled into her lap and An’eth removed the warm cloth, revealing many thick, flat rounds of some kind of bread. It was not baked with cheese or meat, but was a very dense, heavy cake with a dark colour and which held heat well.

“You tear off parts of them and dip them in the yogurt, mustard, or chilies. You drink the tea as you like.” He tore off part of one as she did and tasted the bread itself. It was very warm, and chewy, but also contained a wealth of crushed seeds and nuts folded into the batter. The distinct taste of hazelnuts, walnuts, and chestnuts became apparent to him, but the savoury spices used in the bread did not reveal their names to him as easily.

With the yogurt, the spices were cooled and the sour notes added to the meal, rather than detract from it.

The mustard offered a brighter profile, and highlighted the cooler aspects of the yogurt when one was eaten after the other. The yellow seeds had been ground with oil and salt, making it very agreeable.

He abstained from the chilies.

“You’re not going to tell me what happened, are you?” An’eth asked, drinking her honeyed tea next to him and repeatedly shifting her weight to ease the strain on her wounded body.

“It has passed,” he answered. “May I now inquire as to your own injuries from the mine?”

“We opened the deep roads, the spawn were _long_ overdue for a clearing.” She folded her bread over itself and dipped it into the mustard, taking a bite before touching the smallest corner to the red and eating them together. “We went two, three days deep, I think? All the way to the abandoned Thaig down there, just to make sure there were no broodmothers in the area. I was lanced right here,” she leaned back on one arm, her legs out in front of her, and pressed down just inside her hip bone. “-but the others stopped the bleeding. It still hurts _awful,_ but the Warden Commander checked me last night when we came home and he said it’s healing properly on its own.”

“The Arl is a very accomplished Spirit Healer.”

“I know, but I still think I would have liked Connor or Velanna’s help instead.” Jylan did not challenge her. Surana’s expertise was not to be doubted, but he was not to engage in any sense of conflict.

These heavy breads were very filling. Jylan consumed two, and half-way through the third realized he was no longer hungry. In fact, it moved very quickly from not hungry to the unfamiliar sensation of fullness. He switched from the bread to the tea to prevent the full feeling from becoming an alarming sense of nausea. He was not used to consuming more food than was necessary at a time. The tea brought some relief.

“I’m a Grey Warden, _vhenan,”_ An’eth spoke with a teasing warmth next to him, relieving him of the half-eaten cake that had sat in his hand for the past several minutes. It was good that the food would not be wasted. “I don’t expect you to keep up with me.”

“I was not aware of the filling nature of the bread.”

“We Dalish eat on our feet most of the time, our food has to be hearty enough to keep us full for hours while on the move.” She closed the jar of red paste and Jylan, who was closest to the mustard, closed that one himself. The yogurt was gone. The remaining batter would not be cooked tonight, and there were still a few of the cakes in the basket which An’eth covered up again.

She brought her washbasin and a well-used pad of honey soap to the bed area despite them both sharing the ability to stand and walk to it. They washed with the same water, mostly to remove the trace oil from the flatbread, and An’eth drew out her comb as her fingers untwisted the small braids hanging from her temple. He did not know what was expected of him, so he saw to the needs of the fire by placing two large pieces of wood across the fading flames.

“You get tired, right?” He blinked and looked away from the burning fire, finding her slowly in the red light. “It’s an emotion, sometimes, but mostly it’s just physical.”

“I experience fatigue and exhaustion, yes.”

“Never nervous?”

“No.”

“Never scared?”

“No. I am tranquil, An’eth.” She looked at him quietly, pulling her hand through her hair once, then repeating the gesture, and then again.

“What about lonely?”

“I am not negatively affected by isolation, no.”

“Do you sleep with your hair braided like that, or brushed out?” She changed the subject because the current topic had run its course.

“I comb it before retiring to bed.” He did not have it here, but the topic reminded him of something.

“Would you like any help with it?” She held up her comb for emphasis, he did not answer the question.

“When changing the arrangement of your bed, did you discover the missing amulet described to you before you left Vigil’s Keep?” She gave him a pronounced frown.

“I hardly remember that, Jylan. It’s been a long few weeks…”

“Red, with a yellow chantry sunburst painted on top. It is two pieces of wood, worn from age, fixed together with a brass pin.” It was Amara’s. It was missing.

“Can we look for it in the morning?” She was tired and injured. He was also tired as well as uncomfortably full. He would revisit the matter in the morning. “Come, _vhenan_ , I’ll help you with your hair.”

He did not require aid but did not attempt to evade her request. He sat as she beckoned in front of her, and she pulled free the tie keeping his braid closed, working her fingers and then the comb through his hair.

That she intended for this to be intimate was apparent even to him. Her legs were spread and resting to either side of him, but he considered the nature of her injury and doubted that she sought anything more than immediate proximity to him. His hair was parted with care and brushed out, the fine teeth of the comb finding some difficulty with their task as An’eth’s fingers alternated between working with the comb and reaching through the curtain of his hair to rub his back.

“Is there a reason you keep it so long?” She asked him, working her touch up the back of his neck and prompting a pleasant sensation to tease the base of his skull. The comb’s teeth stroked his scalp and his eyes inadvertently closed in response. He remembered and answered her question.

“Not anymore. It is simply a matter of habit now. Does it displease you?”

“Not at _all_ ,” she marvelled softly. “It’s gorgeous and warm. I just thought that, since you usually try to keep things simple, it was odd that you would grow it out like this.”

“It was routinely cut back during my time in the Circle,” he reported this fact to her, closing his eyes again when the comb stroked from his right temple, then back and across and down until the teeth lost his scalp and ran through the hair itself. “When I was made tranquil I was required to grow it out at the behest of the Templars.”

The comb abruptly stopped. Unfortunate.

“Why would the Templars have cared about your hair?”

“I am elven and it is very soft; this pleased them.”

“Jylan,” the brushing did not resume. She was taken with anxiety and tapped him on both shoulders, seeking his attention as if it were possible to her that he had been focused elsewhere. “Turn around and look at me.”

He complied. The mattress beneath them did not make this easy for him as his balance was not easily mastered, but he pulled himself forward and managed to reach his knees, then turn on them and face her. As anticipated, he was deemed too far away from her and An’eth waved him closer, beckoning Jylan forward until she could clasp his face between her hands and pull him into a kiss.

Given the arrangement of weight and limbs, Jylan did not reciprocate this action. Given sufficient encouragement it was unlikely An’eth would hesitate to pull him from his crouch and drop her weight onto her back. Thusly entangled, either her Warden or naturally amorous natures would compel another sexual encounter. Refusing to encourage her was not the same as resisting a stated demand.

Lacking his engagement, the kiss broke apart gently and An’eth stroked his face, careful of the bruise spread next to his left eye. After a second, shorter touch of her mouth to his An’eth settled for gazing at him warmly. He was uncomfortable in this position: crouched in front of her and leaning far forward, his weight cast on one hand sinking into the mattress next to her.

“I’ve never heard a single good story about what the _shemlen’s_ Templars did to the mages in their Circles,” she told him softly, brushing her nose to his intimately, but without kissing him again. “Was it the same for you? Did they hurt you?”

“Infrequently after the Rite, but yes.” His answer was unwise as it caused a look of open pain to shroud her face. An’eth brought both hands up and back across his forehead, dragging her nails through his hair to brush it away and then tangle in it, sweeping forward over his shoulders and initiating another kiss. She was persistent but he did not engage. When she released him he spoke: “It has passed, An’eth.”

“How much of it did they blame on you being a mage, and how much on the fact that you’re one of the people?” She kept her eyes closed, hands slipping from his hair and reaching up again, stroking his neck. Her hands were calloused, but warm.

“The two facts were deeply intertwined,” he answered, but then offered a correction. “Provided the facts are that I was a mage and elven, not a mage and one of your people. My first encounters with the Dalish were through you, An’eth. I am not Dalish.”

“Every elf in Southern Thedas can, if they work hard enough, trace themselves back to the fall of the Dales.” An’eth’s voice was hushed with respect for the topic, respect which seemed misplaced. There was no work-around for those elves like himself who had been removed from their families and then, as Mistress Valora had explained to him and Samar: had their names changed to prevent rekindling a connection with lost kin. Jylan understood that he was fortunate. “We are _all_ remnants from the same nation, _vhenan_.”

“That is unlikely as I understand from my brother that our parents were from Rivain, not southern Thedas.” This was his work-around to her blanket statement. “They began their family in Gwaren when my father could no longer work the trade winds and our mother had no desire to return to her homeland.”

“There are Dalish in Rivain, Jylan.” That did not change the fact that Samar had never described Dalish blood-writing in his memories of either parent’s faces. Samar was old enough to remember many things Jylan had forgotten in the Circle: their father’s laugh and their mother’s rough hands included. “We’ve had a long time to scatter as far as we need to be to keep safe.”

“Evidently.” He had already persisted too deeply in conflict with her. If he continued in this manner then he would run the imminent risk of her anger and likely suffer some physical reprisal for his behaviour. As he had been struck twice today already, he would not permit himself to endure a third and no doubt more punishing blow from a Grey Warden. “Are you tired, An’eth?”

She smiled, laughed gently through her nose, and then nuzzled her face to his. Jylan’s shoulder was aching from holding his weight as long as it had, but he allowed himself to be kissed again as An’eth leaned and looked up into him. The amount of force she used was sufficient to misalign his lips, and the brief effort he made to correct that was misinterpreted as returning the kiss itself. Unfortunate.

She reached up with both arms and wrapped them around his neck, then dropped her weight onto her back. He was not properly balanced to resist this maneuver, and even if he had been he could not refuse her anyways. He would not be hit again tonight, he used his arms only to ensure he followed her, not fall on her.

Eyes closed, he was not permitted to stare at her with his vacant, disengaged expression. He tasted fennel and sage and mustard seeds on her mouth, felt her bring one knee up and her thigh brush against his hip. She hooked her arms under and around his shoulders, pulling him down when her spine rolled and her hips swept up under him. When her lips broke from his to kiss across his cheek, then down his jaw, and her fingers combed through his hair again, he voiced a modest protest: the only one he could think of.

“You stated that you desired only to sleep.” That she had changed her mind was evident. That his statement could be easily explained as merely a request for clarification of her purpose was what permitted him to speak at all.

An’eth made a low, whimpering noise of protest under him, but slowly relented. She did not become angry or forceful with him, did not bark back with a demand for his compliance or silence, or make immediate effort to state she had changed her mind. Instead, her body relaxed under his, her grip loosened around his head and shoulders, and she hummed softly up at him, nudging his nose several times with hers until he looked at her.

“ _Okay,_ ” she sighed, cupping his face with her hands and placing another kiss on his lips, but just the lips this time. “We should dress down for that then, shouldn’t we?” She stroked one finger across his cheek to his mouth, then tapped her own lips. He did not know if the gesture was merely an idle one or if it was meant to indicate a kiss. But she tapped her lips again, gazing at his, and when he leaned down she moved her hand out of the way with a sleepy smile. He kissed her.

Then he climbed off of her, which she did not seem to enjoy. Typically, Jylan slept in a set of soft wool trousers and shirt, unless it was well into summer when the heat finally soaked into the lower levels of the castle, making his chamber too hot, and then he would strip down to just his smallclothes. He had not brought the change of clothes with him, so merely removed his belt and keys, and then pulled the tunic off over his head. There was a modest twinge of pain in his chest from the kick to his gut.

The shirt and trousers he had worn throughout the day were clean thanks to the protection of his robes. They were stale from the day, but not rank or uncomfortable. He did not remove them. His socks were balled and left with his belt and keys next to his shoes.

An’eth stripped off her vest and shirt. Unlike their first encounter when she had worn very little after coming from the castle baths, under her shirt she wore a garment of soft undyed linen. The straps over her shoulders were gently braided and woven in a lace pattern, the modest decoration flowing under her collarbones and around her back, the shift tucked into the soft trousers she also removed. It was an item of comfort and did not include any boning or tight straps to constrict or shape her body, falling neatly to a plain hem which crossed the tops of her thighs.

Hanging around her neck on a fine black metal chain was a pendant of silverite and glass: a Grey Warden’s oath, containing a bead of darkspawn blood in its heart. Jylan had noticed but not paid much attention to the pendant when experiencing their second encounter. He knew the relevance of the item from Connor. An’eth’s hung down between her modest breasts, and it was curious to him that she lifted the chain over her head and set it aside before looking at him with a smile.

“You might get hot wearing all that.” He doubted the validity of her statement, but made no such comment. “Here, help me with this.”

There were several layers of blankets and furs under where they had been sitting on the mattress. An’eth’s hands peeled them back until she found the layer she wanted them to rest on, and Jylan consented after the second wolf’s pelt was drawn over his legs and her chest that yes: he would become excessively warm if he chose to sleep fully clothed.

He was faced with one of two alternatives: reveal the likely bruise on his torso by removing his shirt, or risk encouraging her libido again by removing his trousers and thereby providing her with too much access to his lower body. He removed his shirt, twisting away from her with the act, and discarded it by his other belongings before settling down, the furs resting against his skin.

Despite the very strange sense of being much too close to the ground, the aravel-like arrangement of the furs, blankets, and chests was indeed cozy and quite comfortable. There was sufficient space for both of them as Warden beds were built larger than those for servants. Despite the ample room, as soon as Jylan was settled on his back An’eth immediately came to him under the blankets.

Her bare arm passed over his chest and her hand curled into the pillow under his head from a point between his shoulder and neck. She settled her face into the dip of his other arm, eyes closed and a full sigh escaping her as she stretched her back. She then kicked a little and reached one leg over and around his, twisting yet closer to him.

Jylan had shared a smaller bed with the larger stature of his brother and still ultimately had more mobility than what was afforded to him now. He was not certain if An’eth was truly comfortable in this position, but she sighed goodnight to him and he answered only by lifting the hand of the arm she was laying on, settling his touch at the dip of her waist. He was for the moment comfortable on his back with a pillow under his head and shoulder, but if that changed he would doubtless have to remain in his current position to accommodate her.

Her hair smelled clean and pleasant. He was very full from the meal she had made for them. His breath still tasted like honey and rose-hips. The room was warm. The bed was warm. She was soft and also very warm. They would only sleep tonight. His mild injuries would resolve themselves throughout tomorrow. The fire was burning warmly and kept the room heated. The sounds of the Warden mess hall did not carry through the thick walls and door of the chamber.

His eyes felt heavy until he closed them. He relaxed, and-

An’eth smothered a laugh against his shoulder, he did not know why, but he understood that she was smiling as he opened his heavy eyes only to lose his vision again from the effort. He was not required to look at her, and made only a soft vocalization in his throat to alert her to his attention.

“Did- did you just _sigh?_ ” It was very likely. “I’ve never heard you do that before- you just-?”

“It is a physiological…” Response? Reflex? He did not know the proper word at present. Fluttering his eyes open only showed him the red-splashed ceiling of her room. “I am tired.”

“Do you yawn?” She asked, a strange query.

“When sufficient…ly...” Oh. Yawns were not a conscious decision, and this was proven by the fact that he did so now. He turned his head away from her and covered his mouth with his free hand, drawing the deep breath his body required and feeling tears prick his eyes. He dropped his head back down and returned his arm back to its warm place under the blankets. Her arm across his chest moved and slipped under the furs as well, searching by touch across his ribs and stomach until she found his arm, then his wrist, and finally his hand which was coaxed to hold hers. She pressed her fingers between his, weaving their hands together gently. He closed his eyes again.

“Are you… ticklish?” He opened his eyes again.

“Tranquil do not laugh, I would discourage you from making any such attempts.”

“That was a deflection, not an answer.” She inhaled quick and lifted her head. He did not look at her, he knew that she was smiling. “You _are_ ticklish.”

“I once was. I have not- _agh-_ ” Involuntary vocalization, not intended. The muscles through his core tensed and his body twisted toward hers, away from the squirming touch of her thumb that ribbed and stroked across his side. His hand tightened around hers, but she shook free from his grip and laid her hand flat around his side, embracing him as she hid her laughing smile against his bare shoulder and nuzzled his skin. The affectionate gesture turned to kisses which walked across his exposed collarbone, and he consciously reduced the amount of tension holding his back and shoulders rigid. Intense and visible discomfort would imply resistance.

“I won’t do it again.” She crept across him, used her warm hand to tilt his face towards hers, and kissed him with a smiling hum. “I’m satisfied, because now I know something _no one else_ does.”

“It is not useful information.” An’eth rolled to her belly and propped herself up on her elbow, resting over his shoulder and rubbing gently across his bare skin, back and forth along his chest. 

“Neither is knowing that you yawn, and sigh, and scratch your back when you stretch and get out of bed, but I know those things too.” She spoke to him softly and in a gentle voice. That her interest in him hinged on the novelty of his condition was not lost on Jylan, but it possibly was on An’eth. Normal men also yawned, and sighed, and tended to their physical needs, all while possessing the capabilities for close and intimate and emotionally valid relationships.

He was warm and tired. The circle of this conversation would not yield anything relevant or engaging. He permitted his eyes to droop shut once more, and when she did not engage with him verbally again, they closed completely. He breathed deeply, the same novelty that had caught her attention before. Her response this time was to settle and crawl back down to lay her head on his chest, her arm once again cast over him and around his side, her leg no longer encroaching around his. As it would be more comfortable for him, and offer her emotional satisfaction if he did so, Jylan once again lifted the arm An’eth had tucked herself under and brought it to her waist, then further, to rest across her back.

He felt her cheek press tight with her smile. The fire crackled gently and the heavy spices in the air no longer preoccupied him so keenly. He was not in any pain and remained comfortable. He fell asleep.

He awoke briefly in considerable darkness, uncertain at first of his immediate location as he was much too close to the floor, not laying in the proper direction, and not alone. His memory jogged itself when he felt a heartbeat against his face and remembered An’eth. She remained asleep.

He was no longer on his back but rather lay in a tangle with her. He was not certain how this had come to pass, but then recalled repeated instances of waking up with his arms inexplicably cast around Samar before his brother had opted to sleep in a cot instead. It was fortunate that those events had not mimicked this one, because they were considerably different.

There was sufficient reason to doubt that his current orientation was the result of deliberate manipulation from An’eth. That she could successfully have rolled him from his back to his side was not in question, she was much stronger than him. That she could have successfully slithered his hand up under the linen shift she wore and twined his arm around and under her sleeping body was considerably less likely. He had woken up because that arm was asleep, but very much under her, inside her nightclothes, and he did not have a ready explanation for it. Nor, for that matter, could he explain his other hand and arm.

They were both on their sides and An’eth had cast her leg around him again, her knee resting at his waist. That did not explain or excuse the way his hand, although limp from sleep, had found its way along the back of her thigh and now rested against the swell of her bottom.

The least regrettable aspect of his current position was that of his face. An’eth’s arm was curled around him, her hand resting behind his ear and fingers settled warmly in his hair. His nose was cuddled to her chest, his cheek cushioned by her breast, but the soft linen of her shift was still resting between them. That his head resting in her bosom was the least concerning part of their arrangement did not comfort him.

The hand around her thigh was easily corrected, the one so obviously trespassing around her back was not. If she woke up over the course of his attempts to extract himself, then it was unfortunate but reasonable to expect her to incorrectly claim it as a sign of love for her. He did not love her, he was tranquil. He did not desire her, he was tranquil. If Jylan had been capable of experiencing or expressing compulsions of lust then his arrangement with An’eth would have been far more agreeable and more easily managed from the beginning.

It was fortunate that he had opted to remove his shirt and not his trousers. He now knew that An’eth was wearing the shift and only the shift. This was not useful information.

He stretched his neck to relieve a mild knot of tension forming in the back, but did not rouse her with this action. As the fire had burned down to a subtle glow, the room was growing colder and the bed was the only source of stable warmth, due primarily to An’eth, who was exceptionally warm. Perhaps it was an aspect of her Warden nature but he was quite certain that she was nearly hot all over despite resting in quiet, unbroken sleep.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose, adjusting himself into a position of relative comfort in her embrace. He ignored the discomfort of his arm under her.

He fell asleep.

When he woke up again, there was a soft glow beginning to build in the room: dawn. He had overslept, which was not like him, but as it was the day of rest and he was not properly oriented in his own bed, it was not cause for immediate correction. Unlike his brief moments of consciousness earlier in the night, this time An’eth was awake as well.

And she was laughing, softly, clearly attempting to stifle the noise despite her body moving very obvious- his hands.

He did not understand.

He did not understand at all.

Inappropriate. Wrong. No.

A resonating nothing in his head that failed to adequately fill the space once meant for shock, horror, and wild confusion. He did not feel surprised, he did not consider himself disturbed, but he _should have been_.

“You… you’re very handsy in your sleep…” An’eth whispered very softly and then covered her mouth with her hand again. He could not see her face, she was turned away from him. They were still on their sides but now her back was to him, pressed close to his chest. “You’re awake?”

“Yes.”

“Good _morning_ ,” her greeting dissolved into giggles and her delight was not the worst possible outcome he could have been faced with. Her anger would have been immediately detrimental to him. Her sense of shock or violation, or insult at the presumptive behaviour of his unconscious self, would have been understandable and doubtless rather violent. He did not understand this: he was tranquil. There was no conceivable reason why his hands should have-

“I apologize.” She was laying flush against his front and his arms were around her until he immediately extracted them. The arm under her had remained in violation of her clothing, sweeping around her side and up with his hand deliberately placed to fondle her breast. This was not the greatest offense, merely a contributing factor. In order for him to reach her chest from a starting point at her waist her shift had ridden up with his elbow. An’eth was wearing nothing else. His other hand had transgressed between her soft thighs, to the source of intimate warmth, and for a brief moment he considered the social and purely pragmatic implications of simply removing his left hand at the wrist.

His hands were removed from her without further issue. He removed himself from her side in short order. He would either be reprimanded for his behaviour or-

“Wait- _wait_ ,” or encouraged. No. “ _Vhenan_ , it’s okay. I know you were only sleeping, but we’re _both_ awake now.” _No._ She turned to him, smiled at him. This was his fault.

“It was inappropriate of me and I should leave,” he put the words out quickly, before she could state or command otherwise. “You have my apologies again, An’eth. I shall-”

“No, _stay_.” No. _No._ He could not refuse. This was his fault. He had pledged not to misstep again last night but had done so again regardless of intention.

She touched and stroked down his face, placed laughing, sensual kisses on his lips and cheeks. Her words were spoken low and soft. The sensations across his fingers suggested he had not stimulated her in-excess or with any deliberate motion, but that was irrelevant. She had been stimulated. By him. It was his fault.

The word no did not suffice. It did not have enough weight or consequence. He did not require the word no. He required the word fuck.

 _Fuck_.

Her mouth kissing his, her hands pulling his arms until his touch returned to the parts of her that were most sensitive to such attention. Slurred instructions he followed by lifting the shift over her head, all too aware that this was his fault. He had instigated this. He could have been punished simply for doing so, for the implication that he was here for any reason but her own pleasure and intentions, but An’eth would not do that. She guided his mouth to her breast to suck and mouth, her weight tipping back and her soft voice and grasping hands bidding him follow.

His hand between her thighs, fingers and thumb that knew what was expected and after two previous encounters could compensate for the minor differences between a human woman and an elven one. Very minor differences. Irrelevant differences. She gasped and hummed in her throat, legs extending and then pulling back around him. His eyes remained closed, mouth and hands at work on her. This did not have to be a wholly negative experience.

“I want- _I want- ah…_ ” Broken attempts at speech, not entirely disrupted by his efforts. She was animated, moving a great deal under him until she began to drag her dull nails up his arms, up his back, pulling him up and holding fast around his head so he was given no alternative but to kiss her. His weight was braced on his elbow, arm cast behind her shoulders and his own body beside hers to give space for his efforts on her.

Kisses turned her words to whimpers, changed her flailing into sweeping, persistent touches. She calmed and shivered, uncovered in the pre-dawn glow filtering through the room’s small window, chilled by the air and silence hanging over the arranged bedding and furniture. The only sounds belonged to her breaths and the rubbing, spreading, and invasive practice of his fingers. Pleasure kept her quiet. When she indicated an end to the kisses and pulled his face down close to her, mouthing at his neck, her breaths were staggered and he felt her tense and twitch under him.

“ _No more,”_ she hummed at his ear. She pulled on him, brought him forward over her, and then her hands began to reach and push down on his trousers. She was trembling, but it was an effect of her heightened arousal. “ _You_ \- I want _you_.”

He complied. His clothes were pushed out of the way. He kept his eyes closed. She used her feet to kick and push down until his knees were free as well, although she was not satisfied until he was as bare as she. His state did not match hers and she grew impatient, pulling him down on her with her thighs rubbing his skin and her knees drawn up to encourage a state of arousal. It was a physical response that did not consider the dubious circumstances of the moment, and occurred in short order.

“What-? Jylan-” It was necessary for him to rise off of her torso briefly to adjust their- “When did this happen?” She touched his body where his ribs stopped, where there was a tender soreness creeping from his gut to his chest. He kept his eyes closed and entered her smoothly, leaned over her to move in all at once, and startled her into a gasp that ended her attempts to speak. He took the hand touching him and pulled it away, lowered himself to her again and held that hand by the wrist and down on the bedding. His grip was not strong, merely guiding, and she made no sign of outrage at the gesture.

Her concerns turned to the rhythm of breaths and motions. Her hands clutched at his back and into his hair. It did not have to be a wholly negative experience. The frequency and intensity of her sharp gasps indicated she was in a state of greater sensitivity than in their previous encounters. He remembered that she was injured and made to adjust them- but she protested.

“No- before- like before- yes- _yes-_ ” Then it was perhaps not sensitivity due to pain. This left the alternatives of his previous efforts and her own emotional investment in the process. She would peak soon, and ideally not require him a second time.

She praised and directed him, instructions whittled between soft cries and whimpers of pleasure. When slower, when deeper, when to stroke her thighs, lift her knees, kiss her neck. It was not his place to question or resist these instructions. The exertion made his skin very hot, and aggravated the bruise across his gut. The stimulating act of kissing seemed unnecessary at this point but she pulled his mouth to hers to smother her noise and he compli-!?

Motion twisted his neck and he recoiled sharply from pain. Involuntary resistance which stopped his actions, broke the rhythm that saw her peak but then stumble with a protesting cry. There was blood in his mouth. His eyes were open in an attempt to make sense and put order to conflicting sensation. He saw a thick bead of saliva and red blood fall from his mouth to her blushing chest.

His lip had _crunched_.

“Jylan-?” He was frozen without direction. “ _By the dread wolf-!”_ He had experienced this moment before and if it was not properly navigated then he would be hurt again. An’eth had not hurt him before. She had hurt him now. That she had bitten him was not the issue: he was tranquil, he did not have the right to protest or to leave. The issue was that he did not know why it had happened. If she intended it as punishment then he would know for what reason so as not to repeat it and therefore stave off additional harm. If she intended it as a point of experiencing her own pleasure or power over him then he would confirm it as such so as to mentally and physically resign himself to that fact.

He had been braced over her on both hands but lifted one to his mouth to prevent further splatter from touching her skin. This required he pull his weight back to his feet and knees, his body hunched and in a pose of significant tension and discomfort.

“Why?” He uttered the question. An’eth was on her elbows and then shifted her hips back, swearing as she separated them and provided some relief as he no longer had to hold his position over her. He could retreat back and she pressed her knees together, the encounter sidelined and likely also considered over. She clasped both hands over her mouth and nose, staring at him with eyes held wide.

“Jylan I’m _sorry-_ ”

“I do not understand my transgression.” There was blood in his mouth. It was a significant volume that had begun to pool against his palm and was flooding back over his teeth. In such quantities the taste moved from noteworthy to excessive in regards to his own discomfort. There was an uncomfortable amount of saliva forming in his mouth as well, doubtless a response to the throbbing pain caught along the corner of his lip. “Why did you bite me?”

“I’m so sorry, let me see it.” She reached for him, he withdrew from her. He did not know her purpose in attempting to touch him and reacted in search of space. Her fingers curled and her face displayed open pain at his retreat, but she did not become enraged by him either. His hand was filling with blood. “I- I have elfroot.”

She rolled to her feet and moved with wobbling, unsteady steps. He did not know if she had peaked or not. He did not know if he had either. He knew very little about his physical self at present save that his skin was hot and cold all over without any sense of uniformity. He was messy and tender across his lower body, there were sensitive lines waving across his back and shoulders. His mouth hurt; his lip was swelling; his palm was bloody and beginning to seep down his jaw.

He abandoned the effort and retrieved his trousers from the ball they had been kicked into amongst the blankets. The wool was too dark to reveal the bloodstain from his hand as he stood and pulled both his underclothes and trousers on.

“Here,” he looked at her and An’eth was holding a wooden cup of water to him. He accepted it along with one of the jars left empty from their meal last night. He took water from the cup, swished, and spat it into the jar: thick and red and painful. He repeated the act until the water from the cup was gone, and the waste water was simply poured into the corner of the cooled fireplace.

An’eth retrieved her shift and pulled it on as he washed his mouth. His lip still bled but was beginning to slow enough that he could swallow the blood now rather than permit it to pool in such a nauseating manner.

“I’m sorry,” She repeated, “I’m _so sorry_. It’s already bruising and I-” Her shoulders fell with a catching breath, even her ears dipping from the sense of regret. “It was just supposed to be a little love bite, but then there was this _wave_ of- and I’m _sorry_.”

“Therefore it was not intentional?” Neither a punishment nor perversion.

“No- _no_ , never!” Her words sufficed. However, when she swept towards him he took an automatic step back to avoi- “Jylan!”

His foot sank into the bedding, his leg hit the chest enclosing the sleeping area and he continued down over it, striking his elbow to the stone floor. Numbness flared up his arm to his fingertips, cooling his small and ring fingers. There was a bruising pain at his elbow and a sore mark at his hip, but with an involuntary rush of air from his mouth he deemed himself uninjured. He pulled his legs over the barrier he had fallen across, possessing no sense of urgency with the matter of reorienting himself, but was swiftly aided by An’eths hands grabbing his arm and then sweeping around to brace him, offering unnecessary help as he reclaimed his feet.

Once he was standing, An’eth immediately wrapped her arms around his bare chest, holding tight to him with her face turned down against his skin. She repeated her profuse apologies, insisted she had not meant to frighten him, and pleaded that he return to the bed with her.

_No._

“I request permission to leave.” He toed the line of refusal and resistance, but was entitled to this attempt. His statement made her jump, ease her grip, and look up at him with surprise.

“ _Permission?_ ” She repeated, mystified. Very well: he would clarify.

“I am injured and you are in a state of distress.” He said. “I request permission to leave and tend to myself privately, as well as to carry out several mundane but necessary tasks reserved for the day of rest.”

“But- _permission?”_ She repeated the word yet again and this time he did not offer immediate reply. An’eth was the one required to provide clarification this time. He located his shirt instead, and this conscious action on his part broke her confused silence. “Jylan, I- I can’t _force_ you to stay. You don’t need _permission_ to do something.”

“I am tranquil and you are a Grey Warden.” This simple matter seemed to escape her notice far too often and if these lapses persisted or arose in other areas then it would be worthwhile to consider sending her to Surana again for more in-depth analysis of her physical wellbeing. “This is a Grey Warden fortress and I am a contracted servant within it. I request permission to leave, Grey Warden.”

“I’m not some human Templar, Jylan!” She shouted at him, offended, before dropping her voice again but maintaining a stern tone with him. “I’m your _lover_. You’re supposed to be able to talk to me without having to throw my rank or title into things.” He pulled on his shirt. This was made of undyed wool and his hand left bloody smears and stains across the back where he grabbed it and the front hem which he used to pull it down. The bruise on his chest from last night was exceptionally tender.

“I hurt you and I’m _sorry_ , I am.” She continued, and he remained standing as he pulled on one sock, then the other. Regardless of her eventual answer to his request, the room had grown cold and the clothing returned a sense of physical stability to him. “It won’t happen again and if you just need space to calm down then yes, yes you can just leave, but-” He held his tunic in both hands before remembering something. He did not hear the rest of what she said but he did wait for her to finish speaking before looking at her, still holding the garment.

“The amulet I left here the first time we-” She threw her hands in the air with a loud, frustrated noise, spinning away from him on her bare heel.

“Can you not just _talk_ to me!” He did not understand what purpose this phrase would serve if sarcastic. He assumed it was literal and therefore unfounded.

“We are currently conversing.”

“Without changing the subject and ignoring what just happened! What you just _said!_ ” She rounded on him again, half the room between them, but she strangled the words and grasped at the air trying to vent her frustration. With a huff, she dropped her arms and stared at him with her distress. “You’re just going to say _‘I am tranquil, An’eth_.’, aren’t you?”

“As it is relevant, yes: I am-”

“Stop.” She showed him both palms, then ran her hands back through the longer part of her hair, closing her eyes and drawing a deep, stabilizing breath. She shook her head, kept her hands in her hair, and turned away from him again. “I’m sorry, and it doesn’t matter because you’re tranquil. I get it. _I get it_ , just- let me be upset about it.”

She walked to the night table next to her bedframe and opened the top drawer. She removed Amara’s red and yellow amulet and turned with it, brought it to him, and handed it over. The amulet’s worn wooden body was unchanged from when he had last held it, the item fitting neatly in his unsoiled hand. His thumb automatically pressed along the seam between the two pieces of wood and rotated the face of the amulet around the brass pin. He did not look at it as he spun the chantry sunburst, merely performed the familiar action.

It did not matter when she had found it or when she had remembered it or whether her memory had lapsed or not. What mattered was that it had been returned to him.

“Thank you, An’eth.”

“You can leave.” He continued to dress as she spoke. His shoes, his tunic, his belt, his keys, Amara’s amulet. “I _want_ you to stay, I _wish_ you would, but I can’t make you and I won’t stop you.” He stood there and he listened, and then nodded to show his understanding.

He left.

 


	23. The Amaranth Court

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOH HERE WE GO:

 

Like Soren, like Morrigan, Zevran was a chronic early riser. There was just something good for the soul in getting up and leaving warm, close quarters to experience the day before it truly began. Evening twilight was a silence which smothered day and made it fall asleep, but the predawn glow was a release and awakening that stirred the blood and helped the mind keep itself calm before the hectic nature of life resumed.

Zevran preferred to spend the early twilight atop the Vigil’s battlements, with a brisk walk about her primary wall. His passing left footprints on the dewy stone walkways, his touch on railings, bannisters, and battlements streaking the wet stone with faint marks like lyrium on paper. Once, years ago, such obvious signs of passage would have set his anxious nerves twitching and fighting, looking for a way to avoid being so casual and open about where he had been. Years ago, after his return from Antiva, he had skulked these paths instead of walked them, scanned the horizon for darkspawn, for bandits, for smoke from the wrong chimneys and noise in quiet courtyards.

Now it was not so severe. Fifteen years without the Crows could make a man a little lazy. It was far less a patrol, far more a quiet part of his routine, comfortably fixed about his shoulders much like the warm black cloak hugging his body against the creeping autumn cold. He walked to be seen and was acknowledged by the Silver Order and Grey Warden watchmen, a familiar part of their twilight watch. When they were on good terms, Soren often accompanied him on these jaunts, albeit silently: it was a time for contemplation and only the rhythmic tap of boots on cold stones, not conversation. When they were not on good terms, Zevran walked alone.

Zevran knew he had grown complacent with this task, and complacency was likely to blame for the horrors of last winter, but Zevran had also been away in Highever when foul hearts and paid knives had scaled these same walls under cover of darkness and spirited out again in a storm too thick to swim through, nevermind see. He had been guilty of the matter only until Soren had talked him out of it, directed his mind and purpose to fixing what was wrong instead of the two of them crumbling away under the grief of Kieran’s disappearance. Morrigan had done the same thing for Soren in turn and kept him sane throughout the war with Redcliffe, and as a family they had survived the matter.

They had survived the war, and now it was the peacetime lull that was killing them.

Zevran had apologized, or _tried_ to. Maker Only Knew how much he regretted what had been said and how he had come to let the words loose like that. Soren had not deserved it. Another fight about the Tranquil, about the Circles, about _literally anything else_ , Zevran could have lived with, but he had crossed a line and even Morrigan had stared with shocked silence at him when he had revealed his heartless stupidity. He had made a rash assumption, and he _knew_ he had hurt his friend in the process.

He had apologized for harming the memory of Eadric, but not in the pleading _‘please forgive me I am a horrible person_ ’ way. Soren had not said anything and Zevran would not have wanted him to. His statement, softly spoken the night of their argument, had been: _‘My actions were unworthy of me, but more so unfair to you. I spoke where I had no right to, about things I knew nothing about. I am sorry, my friend.’_ No request for forgiveness, that was not how these things worked. Apologies were not meant to erase the wrongdoer’s guilt, but to ease the wounded party’s pain.

Soren had stared at him coldly when he spoke, then looked away from him in a manner of silent, frigid dismissal. They had not spoken since.

But perhaps they would speak now.

It was unfair to call the light creeping over the eastern road the _‘sun’_ just yet. It was a soft and hazy white glow, parted by the form of the hills and captured in the rolling clouds of mists clinging to the Amaranthine countryside. From this wall, the view of the road and those hills was clear during the day but misted and quiet in the twilight. A tall banner was flapping in the gentle morning wind not far from where Zevran was walking, and beneath it stood a figure in a winged Warden helmet, fine Silverite boots and breastplate, but also the distinct fall and form of mage robes.

Zevran approached the Warden Commander, who did not look away from the horizon, and at the last possible moment he chose not to continue walking by. He moved past Soren and behind him, and then pulled up around his left side. The Grey Warden kept his arms folded, the Assassin touched the glistening stone wall with his fingertips, and the banner fluttered softly overhead with the occasional snap and furl.

They did not speak for some minutes, not until the sun was able to begin touching the sky with proper rays of uncut light. Vigil’s Keep was too far inland to see the Amaranthine ocean but it felt like standing on the very edge of the known world when the dawn began to blind the coast.

Soren tilted his chin up slightly, his profile completely hidden by the enclosed walls of his helmet.

“Do you have your spyglass?” He asked, eyes still watching the horizon. Zevran tried to follow his gaze into the glare, but didn’t have the same protection his friend was afforded by the helmet. Reaching to his belt, Zevran opened the case and withdrew the collapsed metal cylinder as requested. Soren took it, pulled it open, and placed it to his eye.

Zevran squinted again and this time was aided by the sight of something very small moving through the mists and catching some of the early rays. Too big to be a lone horse because he could see it with only a hard effort and a hand over his eyes, too small to be a convoy or army or even a company of some kind. But it was moving. The way the roads joined and wove together, there was no way to know if the carriage had originated to the north or south of them. Still, it would take some time for them to properly arrive at the gates.

“Keep an eye on it,” Soren told him. He handed back the spyglass and then walked away.

Zevran put the glass to his eye and watched.

It took oh, say, maybe an hour before the carriage and its four horses were close enough in the morning light for Zevran to see that it was not a carriage in service to a recognizable lord. It was a hired vehicle, and the fluttering movement at its doors may have been a banner of some sort flung over it to give it presence but the bend of the road and glare of the sun would not reveal the insignia, and the one behind the coachman was blocked by the man’s body as he drove the horses on. The carriage did not arrive at a gallop, but a steady canter. Still, to arrive so early they must have left and travelled for some hours in darkness. Risky, but possible.

So imagine his surprise when the morning finally revealed its secrets, and at the final bend before coming properly to the Vigil’s lower walls, he saw the hand of the _Formari Guildsmen_ fluttering from the door. What in Andraste’s name would possess the Tranquil to brave night-time travel?

Zevran was not the only one on the walls watching this approach, but he was one of the few who had very little to do about it. The carriage stopped at the main gate, which was not yet open, and was permitted inside once the morning bell began to toll. Zevran climbed down from the walls to the front courtyard of the fortress itself and was well ahead of the carriage which made a slow, steady climb up through the settlement to reach the second wall, and rumble inside. Soren was nowhere to be found, but doubtless had been told by now who it was. The fortress was awake: Wardens and militiamen milling about on their day of rest, some on their way to the chantry for prayer and paused by the arrival of someone new, others who had hardly a care and were simply going about chores and make-work.

The carriage was indeed a hired arrangement. The Formari ventured so rarely from Amaranthine that they had no need of their own stables or carts and carriages. The banner was a formality that nearly fell from the window where it had been hung when the door quickly opened before the footman could climb down and aid his patron out.

Three hooded figures exited the carriage. White sleeves and blue torsos, identical to how Ansera dressed himself. Only one was distinct for the great rope of gold around his shoulders and holding a medallion of great value at his chest: the Guildmaster _himself_ was in attendance? Soren would not like this. Another carried a large box in their arms and accepted assistance from the third Formari so as not to drop or be overburdened by the object. The fourth person to exit the carriage, Zevran was truly surprised to see, was Samar Ashera.

Zevran watched with open curiosity, guiltless in this venture in a courtyard hosting several other idle gawkers. He could not tell the race of the two hooded Formari accompanying their Guildmaster, but Samar looked reserved and pale. He was looking here and there without direction in the courtyard, clearly uncertain if he should remain with the people he had spent so many hours in close quarters with, but he did not make to vanish or hide either. Zevran remained out of immediate sight, but kept a clear view of what happened next.

Owain said something to Ashera and the elf nodded, remaining where he was.

Seneschal Garevel exited the keep, but he was barely within earshot of the carriage before Guildmaster Owain started walking. Walking away from the doors? He struck out at a sharp angle and his attendants fell in step with him, Ashera looking about with some reluctance before following as well. Of them all, only the sailor looked back when Garevel came into the courtyard proper and called out asking where they were going.

Zevran quickly and very quietly followed.

The Formari came to the keep’s kennel and walked right through the open door, startling the Kennelmaster who asked what their business was and was summarily ignored. They went through the door into the keep’s lower levels and here Ashera was looked at to lead them on, which he did without comment. Zevran followed.

He was not surprised when they came to the apothecary workshop door, and he was now close enough that one of the two attendants turned and looked at him briefly: a human man with vacant eyes who noted Zevran’s presence, saw him open his hands in a gesture of non-violence, and then ignored him again.

“Open the door.” Owain said, prompting a frown and odd fidget from Ashera who had already knocked and called through without answer.

“It’s locked, he’s probably not-”

“I would know that he is not practicing an effort of silence so as to eliminate the chance of being discovered.” Zevran did not know Owain _well_ , they had met of course but he was quite irrelevant to the Tranquil and didn’t have much reason to speak to him. But Zevran also knew Ansera, and it was not like a Tranquil to interrupt someone. “You have skills which may unbar the door without undue violence to the structure or integrity of it, and I would have you employ those skills now.” Pick the lock? Zevran could do that for them, but he waited.

Ashera struggled for a moment before taking one knee at the door and finding the right tools at his belt for the job. Zevran could not see through the bodies in the way to judge his skill with the matter, but the door clicked open without issue or strain, and Owain pushed through the door before the brother had even shuffled out of the way.

Zevran’s idle curiosity and intrigue vanished here, because the hard and abrasive line Owain took surpassed whatever his tranquil nature otherwise dictated. There was a pause before it, however, a catch in the doorway where Owain stopped and one of his attendants nearly walked into his back. Then he proceeded forward, and he raised his voice and spoke quickly and loudly, filling the room with the sound of sharp reproach.

“Compounder Second Class, Jylan Ansera, Formari Guildsman of Amaranthine, you will provide comprehensive and immediate explanation for your current physical state and the abhorrent lack of professional awareness displayed on your part by substandard communication practices. Refusal to comply with guild regulations will not be tolerated and it is already sufficiently clear that you will be required to return to Amaranthine City immediately.”

The formari cleared the door and Ashera did as well, Zevran quick on the other elf’s heels because what in _Andraste’s Name_ would have Owain so-

_Shit!_

“Jeevan!”

Zevran stopped hard in the door and stayed there. Ashera rushed to his brother immediately where the chemist had indeed been hiding quietly as his Guildmaster had warned.

“Guildmaster Owain.” Ansera spoke in a delayed, stilted voice. He did not have his robes with him and was undressed to the waist with his hair knotted and unbound, a dark bruise was marking his gut, chantry amulet around his neck, his hands and arms wet to his elbows.

Ashera went from the brief observation of his hands to the sink behind him, looked inside and then returned to his brother. Zevran saw the dark red and purple spreading down from the corner of the chemist’s mouth, and when he was physically turned to look at his brother there was another bruise on his face, barely sparing his eye from swollen injury.

“Who?” Samar demanded, voice shaking, his hands holding his brother’s arms and then working down to his wrists, looking for his hands. “Who the fuck did this? Tell me- _tell him!_ I don’t care, Jeevan, just tell _someone!_ ”

“It has passed.” Ansera dropped his eyes before giving his poor answer, and Zevran heard Samar’s temper snap, eyes wide, and his hands painfully gentle as he pushed his brother’s face up again to stare at his mouth.

“The Warden,” Samar growled at him. “ _Your fucking Warden!”_ Zevran moved forward, but he was stopped when the same Tranquil who had looked at him before noticed him again and moved directly into his way. He tried to step around and was stone-walled again, the Tranquil staring at him without reservation, hands hanging at his sides and voice dead when he spoke:

“Are you a Grey Warden?”

“No,” he answered, and made a third, also failed, attempt to get around him. “I am in service to the Arl and would know what the hell is going on here so I may report back to him directly. Your guildsman is a denizen of Vigil’s Keep and obviously the Arl’s protection has been flouted; I would know why, and by whom.” He had a horrible suspicion he knew who.

“Then you will expedite the matter by arranging either to have His Grace come here directly, or we shall go to his court.” Guildmaster Owain made his statement from the sink, where he had reached down and now drew out a blood-stained shirt. The garment was only a very pale red from the water soaked through it, but blood was blood, and Ansera had been trying to wash it away.

Zevran did not know how he felt when he looked back at the chemist and saw his brother hugging him very tightly, the Tranquil’s arms at first hesitantly, and then quite deliberately, returning the embrace in silence.

“Whose blood is that, Compounder?” Zevran asked, still barred from coming any closer by the Tranquil in front of him.

“It is mine.”

“I would know why you are still here, Master Arainai.” Guildmaster Owain spoke to him in a level voice, but his words remained quick. “You will inform the Arl immediately that I am removing my guildsman from Vigil’s Keep. His brother possesses sufficient emotional motivation to ensure his present safety, and I the legal wherewithal to support and extract him. You may go.”

“I still have questions and would know the answers before going to Surana empty-handed.”

“Your questions and input are wholly irrelevant,” Owain told him directly. “Vigil’s Keep stands in blatant violation of agreements held between the Formari Guildsmen and the Arl of Amaranthine. My guildsman is injured, I will know why, and you will fetch the Arl.” Zevran set his teeth.

“Neither the Arl nor myself are to be ordered about lightly, Guildmaster.”

“Oh- will you just do what he fucking says!” Samar’s voice rose over whatever Owain would have answered him with. There had been a tunic on the table that the other elf helped his brother pull over his head to cover him in the chilled room, but now the task was done and Samar looked away from where his hand was still gently holding near the dark bruises on the chemist’s swollen mouth. “You don’t run the Wardens, and it was a Warden who did this!” And how was he so certain?

“Samar-” Ansera was looking at his brother, but did not finish what he might have said.

“These are _teeth marks_ ,” Samar turned on him with gripping sincerity. “I don’t care how much elfroot you put on them, the deep one’s going to scar. There’s only _one person_ in this entire keep you’d let get that close to you and the fact that she kicked the shit out of you to go with it just-”

“That is not what happened.”

“ _Bullshit!_ I ran off Ariyah’s drunk and I’ll run your Warden through if I have to.”

“Which Warden are you accusing?” Zevran interrupted them, a hot flicker crawling up his neck at the sailor’s threats. He had every right to be angry, yes, but the Order was the Order and Zevran would _not_ take such language lightly.

“Samar, no-”

“The Dalish one-” _Athras,_ “-the redhead!”

“I was commanded not to speak of the arrangement.” His brother’s voice was blank, but quiet. “Not with anyone.” That hush caught the ear of all in the room, including the Tranquil blocking Zevran who now turned and faced Ansera with silent interest.

“I compel you to explain.” Owain demanded, having wrung out the shirt and now holding the blooded garment in his hand. Ansera stared at the floor and did not answer. “As Guildmaster, I command you to explain the matter entirely.” His silence persisted. Ansera raised his hands a little and wove his fingers together, elbows bent, and although Zevran knew Tranquil did not become anxious, it still read like nerves to him.

Owain moved in on his guildsman and Zevran stepped into the path cleared by the distracted Tranquil in front of him, reaching Samar and taking his arm firmly to turn him aside for a quick exchange:

“How long have you known Athras was seeing him?”

“Since I fucking got here,” the other elf hissed, shaking Zevran’s hand off with a rude shove. Fine, be angry, Zevran was starting to feel it too. _Athras._

“Jylan,” Owain’s voice distracted them. It was quieter now, his voice still carrying the Tranquil monotone as it had the whole time, but somehow kinder. “As your friend, and as your mentor, and as the one who helped you survive the journey from Kinloch Hold to Amaranthine, I ask you to please tell me what has happened to you.”

He hesitated still, but this time Ansera took a breath and looked up almost to his Guildmaster’s eyes, dropping his gaze again to the medallion resting across Owain’s chest. He looked small and vulnerable standing there without long sleeves or the warmth of his robes.

“I do not know where your authority stands in relation to that of a Grey Warden of Vigil’s Keep.”

“I surpass it by a considerable degree.” Owain answered him with nothing but flat air. “Where the safety and wellbeing of all guild members is concerned, I hold supreme authority. I overturn the command made to compel your silence, and ask once more that you explain your circumstances as they exist to me.”

“And to me.” Zevran’s eyes followed everyone else’s when Soren spoke to them from the workshop door. Flanked by Nathaniel, who was considerably taller, and Garevel, whose reaction to the Tranquils’ odd escape was now revealed, it lent his friend credible strength that he was still the most imposing of the three as they stepped into the workshop.

Soren observed each person in the room one by one with his cold blue eyes, settling very firmly upon Ansera who would not look up from the floor again, and Zevran himself, before moving on. Zevran was able, between these moments, to note how while all four tranquil in the room had turned to take note of Soren’s presence, only Owain was bold enough to look to his face and not down at his chest or knees.

“I see that you had reason, Owain, to break from formality the way my Seneschal explained to me.”

“I hereby annul Compounder Ansera’s contract with Vigil’s Keep.” Owain’s statement looked like it smacked Garevel in the face. Soren merely held up an open palm to the Guildmaster. “I have seen enough.”

Ansera moved like he would speak, his eyes set on Owain, but then he stopped, he withdrew, he closed his mouth and his gaze slowly trickled back down to the floor. For a man without emotions, Zevran saw one who had just felt something break.

“I will not infringe upon your rights as Guildmaster, Owain, but I won’t let you have that decision without compromise.” Soren stepped smoothly forward and Zevran wondered if either hooded tranquil would move to block Soren the way they had him. They did not, but Owain did move forward to meet him and put himself directly between his guildsmen and his patron. “I will have an explanation from Compounder Ansera regarding his injuries and their cause, and no one is leaving Vigil’s Keep until that happens.”

They would not have this discussion here. If nothing else: Ansera was injured and not in any state for further questioning. His brother and the other Tranquil had arrived only an hour ago and had been in their carriage for hours since departing Amaranthine in a great hurry to get here. Garevel had the Guildmaster and his attendants follow him away, and Soren caught Zevran’s eye again before gesturing to the brothers. An unspoken but understood request that he watch over them.

They were still on poor terms, but at least this showed Soren still trusted him.

Ansera’s lip was treated with salve, and he accepted an elfroot leaf which he chewed and then tucked between his teeth and the inside of the same lip. Zevran was no healer, but he braced a hand on Ansera’s chest and they worked together to confirm that no, he had not broken anything in his chest, merely bruised it badly. Without the shirt under his tunic, his arms were bare and Zevran saw another bruise forming down his forearm, but the Tranquil’s only response was that he had fallen.

Doubtful.

Samar went to gather food and Zevran bade Ansera drink water before taking him back to his chamber, where his brother found them again with a portion of fresh bread and jam and a cup of strong tea with honey. Ansera was perpetually calm, of course, but even without saying so out loud it was obvious he preferred his brother’s care and company to Zevran’s.

“You look fucking exhausted,” Samar said after his brother was dressed in fresh warm clothes. He seemed more put-together once his white and blue robes were around his body again, though he kept them both unfastened while sitting hunched and tired on his bed.

“It has been a shit morning.” Zevran had to look twice at the Tranquil before he was absolutely certain- but- yes, Ansera had just used the word ‘ _shit’_. He’d cussed.

“I had not known Tranquil could swear,” he marvelled openly, and both brothers looked at him.

“It is an accurate description,” the younger one told him, the elder clearly biting his tongue trying not to tell Zevran to leave them alone together.

“Here, finish eating and I’ll fix your hair.” Samar indicated the floor and his brother did not protest, curling his legs on the stone floor while a white wooden comb was fetched. It took less than four passes from the comb before the chemist’s sunken eyes began to actively fight to stay open, the stress pulling out of his shoulders and his head wobbling over his neck. Zevran pitied him.

“I don’t think there would be any harm in letting him sleep for an hour or two, or however long we shall have before the summons.” Samar looked at him sharply from over his dozing brother.

“Summons for what?” Zevran gestured to the nearly sleeping chemist.

“You returned to Vigil’s Keep to find your brother bruised, bloodied, and yet claiming nothing is wrong. Do you not want the full truth of what happened?”

“It was that Dalish woman.”

“I can guarantee you, Master Ashera, that Warden Athras is in plenty of trouble already.” Hindsight was a terrible bitch: Soren should have _told_ Ansera that Athras was forbidden from fraternizing with him. Or Zevran himself should have done so, or Velanna. _Someone_ should have told him; Tranquil would not break commands from people with authority, and any of the ones who had been in that room to hear Soren’s order to Athras would have been high enough to overrule her will to sneak around and cause  trouble. “But unless like Owain you are satisfied with the bare minimum, which the Arl certainly is not, then your brother will have to answer the questions Surana has for him. I assure you, in a contest of wills the Arl will never fold to the Guildmaster.” His pride would never stand for it.

Samar brushed and braided his brother’s hair, and then helped him back up and into bed. Ansera barely lasted a few quiet minutes with his brother sitting next to him before he was fast asleep.

He did not stir when a quiet knock at his door revealed Velanna in a state of deep distress, and she seized on Zevran at once with questions about Athras. As Zevran had assumed: Soren had no intention of waiting before acting in some capacity. Nathaniel and two Silver Order soldiers had removed Athras from the Warden barracks, apparently with some loud fuss upstairs, and Velanna had come to ask why.

She only looked at Ansera’s sleeping face before she went pale at the violence of his injuries. She approached him with the quiet intent to check the bruises but took Samar’s cold and defensive stare as a clear sign not to come too close. Given her history and the bond once shared with her own younger sister, Velanna did not test the other elf.

“I can believe that she would defy Surana,” Velanna spoke to him in a hushed voice by the open door. “But not this, _never_ this. His _face_ -” She covered her mouth with her hand, shaking her head when he offered her a hand in comfort. “I have to tell Valora.”

“Have you heard anything Surana intends yet?” He felt he already knew. If Soren had ordered Athras arrested rather than simply summoned her and pulled her quietly out of sight, then he meant for people to see it happen and to talk about it like this. The Guildmaster was as angry and offended as a Tranquil could become, Soren would give him a spectacle to make addressing the issue into an act of humiliation and rumour.

“If you don’t know, Zevran, then how should I?” She made a fair point, and didn’t know the Warden Commander as well as Zevran did. She cast a longing look back into the room, but then left.

Soren was doing nothing to keep this quiet. The two armed guards who came to fetch them were flashy and unnecessary, Zevran was all the protection Ansera could have ever needed. Maker’s Breath, his _brother_ would have easily sufficed. Ansera was roused gently and once awake seemed a little better for having napped, albeit for little more than an hour.

Zevran’s concerns were validated as they left the small room to find the underbelly of Vigil’s Keep devoid of life. The few servants they passed stopped and made a point of watching them, three elves and two guards, and there was clear recognition in how they were stared at.

There was chatter and activity on the main level of the complex when they arrived, Grey Wardens and Silver Order members milling tightly in the halls leading to Soren’s throne room, which was also where they were headed. Recognition flared again in this place, conversation quieting, some picking up in volume and concern. The fortress was _rife_ with gossip.

Zevran was not angry when they entered the throne room with its burning fires and hanging iron braziers and found people waiting and already bearing witness to what was going on. Troubled, yes, but not angry. Between the pillars holding up the chamber there were Wardens, soldiers, servants, pages, and other craftsmen and denizens of the Vigil. It was their right to be here and Zevran could hear the breaths and shuffles of the people on the balcony over their heads looking down into the court.

Soren ran, when he was able to, a bloodless court. Death was too final, too violent, too irreversible. You could restore the honour of a disgraced knight if facts changed after the trial, but you could not stick their head back on and call it a day. Garevel’s executioner’s sword was a tarnished thing that probably hadn’t seen daylight since the end of the Thaw nearly fifteen years ago. But bloodless did not mean safe.

There existed some, a rare few, who could run a court free of exposition and spectacle. The risk for them was to be accused of never doing anything; of ruling by proxy and never taking matters into capable hands. Soren would never dare risk such rumours. He wielded power too well to resist the precision of a political blow. Executions were spectacles you could not take back. Humiliation was the gift that kept on giving.

Why did he have to choose this matter to address in this way? Why not Grand Cleric Brona instead?

Soren was on this throne, not a common sight, but it fit the moment. His iron and bloodstone staff was clutched in one hand, the head ignited and glowing ominously over his silverite helmet. Next to his throne stood Morrigan, in the place of an Arlessa, and draped in deep purple silk with silver hanging from her wrists, ears, and spread down her chest. To Soren’s left and occupying a similar space stood Garevel in a gold tunic and blue sash marking his office as Seneschal. Soren’s warhound, Dinah, was sitting proudly at Morrigan’s feet, ears up, snout raised with attention. Each a step below the throne stood Oghren in full Silverite armour, and Captain Renth of the Silver Order with her regalia, the two officers positioned so as not to obscure the view of the three people and hound above them at the throne.

This was the court of Amaranthine.

Standing before the Arl were the three Tranquil who had arrived that morning, the lesser two standing behind their Guildmaster, who had taken down his hood and remained looking directly up at Soren. Next to them, Warden Lavellan in his armour and wielding his own staff stood in front of two more Silver Order guards who were keeping Warden Athras in place with their simple presence.

She wore plain clothes and had either been stripped of her armour or simply caught without it. Her hands were bound in front of her at the wrist, more a formality than a real wish to hinder her: if Soren had wanted her hobbled, her arms would have been behind her and bound at the elbows, not down where she could see and hold them comfortably. She looked behind her when the crowd parted for them and she was uninjured, a good sign. Punishment was meant to come after judgement, not before.

The two guards abandoned them and Zevran had to act like he knew what he was doing and what had been said until this point, walking forward and bringing the brothers in his wake until he was standing just short of the line where the Guildmaster and the Grey Warden had turned to watch. Everyone could see everyone, and it was not a comfortable place to stand. Zevran did so hate being in the middle of a watching crowd.

“Assuming that we are all much calmer now,” Soren spoke from his throne, seated there with proper posture but still the air of a man confident and comfortable in his role. “Compounder Ansera will step forward and enlighten both my hall and his guild regarding these troubling matters.”

Maker, had he not been tranquil Zevran would have protested this: making the poor man speak in front of all these people. But tranquil he was, and when Soren didn’t protest the way Samar moved with his brother and Zevran stepped out of the way to let them address the court, at least it was a small comfort.

It required less coaxing this time to make Ansera speak. He had his brother there beside him protectively, his eyes still cast to the floor. Faced with both the Warden Commander and his Guildmaster, whatever vow he had been held under finally broke apart.

Soren took each and every piece and hammered them into this Warden where she stood in her bonds. He showed that this was no unbiased court hearing: he already knew the outcome and he was making sure every other person in the room knew it just as well.

Athras had approached Ansera claiming to love him: a violation of the Commander’s orders to stay away.

“No one else knew about that order, your grace!” Lavellan protested this, apparently Soren had allowed the Dalish mage to exercise some of his training as a Clan Second and First, an unofficial leader among the few Dalish Wardens. His arguments hardly phased the Commander.

“Must I announce every order given to every member of the Keep?” Soren countered. “Is it relevant that you know I have commanded Warden Sergeant Howe is to oversee the collection of damaged and rare books so they may be repaired and copied? Shall I announce Warden Ensign Rinald’s patrol roster for the week? The order was issued, with witnesses, and summarily ignored.”

Athras had made Ansera promise secrecy: it showed she knew the matter was illicit and forbidden, but had acted anyways. Lavellan looked to the girl for anything worth saying, but she dropped her guilty eyes.

It dragged on.

“I was not struck by Warden Athras.” Jylan finally voiced his protest over what they’d said about his face. “I spoke out of place and in conflict with the Kennelmaster of Vigil’s Keep. I overstepped my bounds as both elven and tranquil, angered him, and was struck for my insolence.”

Soren summoned the kennelmaster, who was already in the room and had to be dragged to the front like one of his own guilty hounds by the crowd. Zevran felt his teeth grinding and let his face sneer and scowl at the stupid man, and Soren’s staff adopted a particularly malevolent glow. Yes, explain to the elven Arl how beating a mouthy elf was _just the way things were done_.

He certainly made a good effort to do just that, but after his third time blundering over the phrase _‘but he’s elven, you see-_ ’, Soren put an end to it.

“Do you strike my hounds, Kennelmaster?”

“Never, your grace.”

“Do you whip them? Beat them bloody? Break their teeth with your boots?”

“Maker Preserve me, your grace, I would never dare.”

“And yet you would do the same against your fellow craftsman? Seneschal, this is a matter of cohesion and safety for the Vigil’s skilled workers, who fall under your dedicated husbandry.” Soren’s fingers curled around his staff, the Silverite tips of his gauntlets clinking audibly. Garevel nodded and stepped just out of the shadow of the throne, his lip curling up in distaste.

“Were this only a matter of a seasoned professional coming to blows with a young journeyman, Master Harris, I would overlook it. But the Compounder is a Tranquil, the harshest insults he can give are merely distasteful observations of true behaviour. I will not believe you were baited by him, nor will I permit the notion of you flying wildly into rage and beating a man down into the dirt without provocation. Were you drunk, Master Harris?”

“N-No, Seneschal.”

“Unfortunate, then, as that was the last possible excuse for such behaviour.” Brawling when drunk was cause for censure, yes, but even Zevran could admit that what a man did drunk did not always require the same punishment as the same acts committed sober. “Therefore, with His Grace’s permission, and with profuse apologies made to the Formari Guildsmen for the treatment of their comrade, you will be entitled to three months pay and immediate dismissal from Vigil’s Keep. Your grace?” Soren lifted one hand dismissively.

“I stand by the expertise and wisdom of my seneschal.” Harris made a weak noise, but offered no greater protest to his dismissal. “Escort this man back to his quarters, any tools and belongings he claims as his own he is entitled to take with him.” One of the guards stepped forward and did just that, leading the man away. “Your opinion, Guildmaster?”

“Swift and decisive action from your grace offers confidence that breached trust may be restored,” Owain stated flatly, hands hanging at his sides. “But I insist once more on the immediate annulment of Compounder Ansera’s contract with Vigil’s Keep and his return to Amaranthine city.” Zevran could not know how intentional it was, but at the Guildmaster’s words Ansera seemed to droop, his shoulders falling, his head heavy.

“So it may come to pass,” Soren answered smoothly, “Have you anything to say or demand of the Warden brought before you?”

One of the two tranquil Owain had brought with him turned and looked at Ansera, then stepped forward and looked at the Guildmaster until he acknowledged them. Rather than say anything, Owain nodded.

When the tranquil spoke, it was a woman’s voice that came from her hood, carrying the faint accent of Orlais.

“Compounder Ansera is tranquil, as am I, and elven, as am I. I would know if this woman was to him as the Templars once were to both of us. I would know if there exists any possibility of safety for a lone member of the Formari Guildsmen in Vigil’s Keep, or if we must remain in our guild as we once were sequestered in the Formari Quarters. I do not imply corruption of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, only caution where the belief that we exist only for the pleasure of others may persist.”

Soren’s face darkened, it was subtle, but there. He looked past the hooded woman and did not address Athras, he spoke to Ansera:

“Answer your guildwoman’s question, Compounder.” Zevran watched Ansera wither so completely even Samar noticed it, holding an arm around his brother.

“I believe it incorrect to assume that she interpreted her actions as such, Formari Cyril.” Cyril turned to look at him. She was a pale elf, impossibly so, with hair so light it looked as if she might have been a ghost.

“Compounder, you have been told to answer me by the Arl of Amaranthine, and will do such.”

“I have answered you.”

“You have not. You are not _liaison_ to the Grey Wardens: did she use you as such regardless of the distinction?”

“No such distinction exists, Formari Cyril.” Zevran felt his chest hurt, and realized he was holding his breath. “I am tranquil and furthermore my station as Assistant Apothecary of Vigil’s Keep renders me to a position inferior to that of any Fereldan Grey Warden. When assigned a task I am capable of completing there is no excuse for refusal or resistance. My position hinged on my ability to remain both agreeable and useful to the fortress.” Maker _no_.

“She forced you to-?” Samar was breathless from shock, staring at his brother who would not look away from the other Tranquil. When Ansera broke eye-contact with her, he stared not just at the floor but down at his own feet, his hood obscuring his face completely.

Zevran felt the cut and hiss of magic somewhere in the room, but it was not coming from Lavellan or the throne.

“Warden Commander Surana!” A hoarse, brittle voice scratched the air and several Wardens were jostled and pushed aside in a sudden rush to move away from the _enraged_ woman whose staff sparked with blue arcs and her white and violet-edged robes fluttered with the rippling light of the fade. “I would address this court and my brothers and sisters of the Order!”

“Warden Corporal Sephri,” Soren acknowledged her, “You will regain yourself and mind unnecessary displays of raw magic in my hall. Only _then_ will you address this court.”

Sephri was not looking at the throne, she was staring at Athras. She squeezed her eyes tight and her fists shook with effort, but her magic calmed, her light faded, and she strode out from the line of watchers and came to a place in front of Zevran, at the foot of Soren’s dais, and then turned to address the hall.

“Brothers and sisters! Grey Wardens of Ferelden!” She shouted, shaking with anger. “There are so few among us who know anything of the Circles of Magi and the expectations places upon mages subjected to the Rite of Tranquility. Before this circus carries on any further, I would have every _last_ one of us know the weight and meaning of the words these people throw at each other. Warden Commander, may I keep the floor?” she asked as a point of respect, and Soren nodded although she couldn’t see it.

“You may.”

“The Templar Order,” Sephri continued in her shaking voice, “with the blessings and authority of the Chantry, _owned_ the bodies of every Tranquil in every Circle. Theirs was a religious brotherhood with rules I will not comment on, and beliefs I will not repeat, their crimes…” She closed her eyes, gathered herself, and picked up elsewhere. “I worked with the Tranquil of Starkhaven and later those of Kirkwall, that was my distinction within the Circles before I came to the Grey Wardens. And I know that it does not matter which Circle a Tranquil was given to because if anyone, Templar or even Mage, felt their lusts burning with the need for release without judgement or censure, then it was to the Tranquil that they would turn. Tranquil who do as they are told and cannot resist, will not protest, to whom obedience was the only recourse to avoid greater pain and punishment. My brothers and sisters, are we _Templars?”_

A grumble of discontent echoed through parts of the hall, dark looks passing between assembled Wardens. The red lyrium monsters of Corypheus? The addicted spectres of the Chantry? The madmen who had helped tear their country apart fighting the mages?

“Do we feed off the very people we took our oaths to protect!” Athras was suddenly very pale, her gaze thrown to Oghren’s feet. Lavellan looked stricken and his gaze moved from Sephri to Athras and back again, horror and disgust competing before it all dissolved into the same pain. “Do we take, and take, _and take_ without thought for what it means or who we hurt?”

The crowd grew louder, the doors out into the crowded halls were no longer closed: but wedged open with a few people passing in and out, repeating words and spreading the going-on of the court throughout the keep. This was not a private show, Soren had every intention of letting his people hear _every humiliating word_.

 _‘It’s just politics,’_ Zevran felt himself rationalize. _‘He’s not had to deal with desertion or insubordination since Velanna ran off years ago, and she is another Dalish Warden who has ignored him. He’s just making an example of her, he’s supporting the Tranquil, it’s just politics. Isn’t this what I wanted from him?’_ No it wasn’t. No he had not wanted this. It wasn’t support for the Tranquil if he was just using them as a reason to be cruel. It wasn’t cruelty that served a purpose, only spectacle and fear.

The crowd was making up its mind the same way their Arl had, the same way the Guildmaster had, the same way Sephri had, the same way…

“ _Lethallan_ , _”_ Lavellan looked like the crowd had pulled his heart from his chest and then handed it back to him like a cruel novelty. When he spoke it was softly enough that Zevran only heard him because he was this close. “Did you do this? I can defend your heart but not your actions if this is true, An’eth, answer me…”

“I don’t even know anymore…” there was guilt and fear in her, a crushing weight of regret. “I thought… but when he left this morning, how he spoke to me, I…” When she looked away from Lavellan it was to find Ansera, who was still staring at nothing but his feet.

“What?” Samar said behind him, and Zevran looked to the brothers again. He focused on them and not on how Sephri triumphantly stepped back into the fold of the crowd, near the edge of it and visible, but no longer centre stage in the court. “Jeevan I can’t hear you? Speak up, I can’t…”

Sudden silence swallowed the hall and Zevran was too distracted by that to hear if Ansera answered his brother or not. He looked and saw Soren’s hand raised, a sign that things were nearly at an end.

“Warden Lavellan,” He addressed the other mage respectfully. “The concern and honest efforts made on Warden Athras’ part speak highly and well to your credit, but the matter seems clearly laid before us. Have you any further arguments to lift, or are you prepared to abandon the floor?”

“I…” Lavellan was a mature man, easily older than Soren or Zevran, but suddenly his years seemed to pile up and bend him. “All I have left to offer is the fact that Warden Athras was sent to the Grey Wardens as a holy envoy of great significance to her clan. I can only beseech your grace to remember the friendship and mutual respect enjoyed by Clan Zathrian and the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. But… I… He is Tranquil, and I find the matter unsettling now. I ask for forgiveness, not absolution. Mercy, Warden Commander. Mercy for a wayward sister.”

Zevran held his breath again. Soren _did_ know mercy, but his was always the worst kind: it was unpredictable, not always at the back of his mind, but sometimes his intention from the very beginning. He had spared the most surprising people over the years, but then turned and offered absolutely no quarter with others. Even worse, he was the sort to toy with the notion: to dangle it like food over the heads of the starving, only to plunge his blade down through their heart instead.

Why else would Queen Anora hate him so? The man who had spun such detailed and believable tales of compromise and resolution in her salon, of mercy for the madman who had torn Ferelden apart, and then carved his head from his shoulders with absolutely no hesitation? He was a liar and a good one. He used mercy like the finest of poisons.

Lavellan withdrew with his plea for mercy and Soren looked to the assembled tranquil, to Owain.

“Formari Guildsmen, your final word?” The Guildmaster straightened up and spoke.

“We call for the execution of this woman.” An’eth wobbled as though she might faint, the crowd rippling quietly with shock.

“That is excessive.” Ansera remembered his voice. He remembered how to move. He pulled away from his brother and walked past Zevran, came abreast with his Guildmaster and looked to the throne, but not Soren’s face. “There is no precedent for such action.”

“Violations against the guild charter must be addressed to the fullest extent allowed,” Owain corrected his guildsman and Ansera turned directly from the throne to the taller tranquil. He would not look any higher than Soren’s chest, but Owain’s eyes he met directly.

“The charter carries no clauses which stand violated.”

“You are incorrect, the clause exists and the accepted punishments are clearly defined.”

“They do not exist.” Ansera repeated himself in a faster voice. “I know the charter. I drafted the charter. I was the first of the Guildsmen after you were made Guildmaster; I sat and I wrote each clause as they were debated and discussed between yourself and the Arl of Amaranthine, Patron of our Guild. I have drafted the changes considered by your office for application to the guild and I did not write any concerns addressing personal or sexual relations.”

“The clauses in question exist and have been ratified by a vote of the Guildsmen in Amaranthine City,” Owain corrected back, and the hall was torn between listening to them and whispering to each other. “You were not present as you could not be reached and were remiss in your communications.”

“I should have been informed.”

“Had we known it would be relevant, you would have been.”

“I should have been informed regardless of relevance as I am a member of the Formari Guildsmen and am owed the courtesy of my own guild charter’s inclusions and changes.” He was speaking so _quickly_ now that Zevran-

“A copy of the charter has been prepared for inclusion among the tools and documentation required by whichever guildsman may replace you after your return to Amaranthine City.” And Owain matched him, no anger, only speed.

“I will not be replaced,” Ansera stated, staring straight into the eyes of the other tranquil. “I will not be replaced on the basis of critical and guiding information being withheld from me by both my Guildmaster and the Arl of Amaranthine. That the arrangement was forbidden by the Arl was never communicated to me; that the decision was made before I was approached on the matter was never communicated to me. I was not consulted. I was not given the means to make appropriate decisions when my consent was sought by Warden Athras.”

“Your actions did not require guidance as you have not acted in violation of your duties. Your safety has been repeatedly compromised and you will return to Amaranthine for your own safety. You are the victim, the victim of crimes committed by-”

“-The Formari Guildsman and Office of the Arl of Amaranthine,” Ansera interrupted and he did so in a voice which carried and quieted the hall, shocking Zevran dumb in the process. “The crime is entrapment, the victim is Warden An’eth Athras of Clan Zathrian, Envoy of Dirthamen, disrespected and rendered a scapegoat. I will not be manipulated by false claims of security when my safety was compromised by you, not An’eth: by you.”

“ _Gentlemen._ ” Soren lifted and struck the end of his staff on the floor, a resounding noise breaking from the stone and dragging their attention back to him. “That is quite enough, Owain. You will take your guildsman back to your hall where he will have the time and peace to readjust and remember himself.”

“Yes, your grace.”

“No-” Ansera was ignored.

“The Guildsmen reaffirm our pledge in this matter: we seek the execution of this woman for the crime of rape.”

“It is excessive and you have no basis-”

“Compounder Second Class,” the woman, Cyril, stepped into Ansera’s way when he moved to confront Owain again and stopped him. “You will remember your place in these matters.” And then, in a louder voice so she could be heard: “As Formari First Class of our guild, I second the pledge put forth by my Guildmaster. Execution for the rapist.”

“It is unnecessary, Cyril, she is no danger to-” Oh Maker, they were using this as a moment to set a precedent in Amaranthine law. The flavour of the facts meant nothing, the fact was a member of the guild had been raped, and the maximum punishment outlined in their charter was execution.

“As Formari Third Class, I third the pledge put forth by my Guildmaster. Execution for the rapist.”

“It is entrapment, Nasser.” Ansera’s arguments meant absolutely nothing, this had already been decided.

“You have the victim in these matters pleading for mercy, Warden Commander,” Zevran heard himself speak because _no one else_ was. It didn’t _matter_ if it contradicted the Formari’s plans because it was _wrong._ “I pray you are listening to him.” But if Soren and Owain had planned this together, then there was absolutely no hope of that…

“Warden Athras, have you anything to say in your defense, to refute the claims against you beyond your insubordination and willful disregard for my commands?”

“I… _I…_ ” An’eth’s head would be on the gates by noon. The trap had been laid and it didn’t matter why it had been triggered, she was caught and would die in it. “I never meant for _any_ of this to-”

“I renounce my position within the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine!”

Even under his helmet, Zevran saw the jolt of _shock_ that struck through Soren when Ansera raised his voice. Blessed Andraste, it was the wash of cold water over sinister flames.

“I surrender all right to their protection and reject all supposition of aid.” He continued, and it was Owain’s turn to be ignored as Ansera continued to speak over him. “I am unbound by their charter; released from their obligations and remove myself from their hierarchy. I renounce my guild; I am without profession and I move to dismiss the Formari from these proceedings as they have no place in this court and no jurisdiction over me.”

Just like that, he swept the rug out from under Soren’s feet. He was shocked, Zevran knew just from the way his entire body refused to move and the light of his staff dimmed so far it nearly went out. Zevran wished he had a chair to fall into from the shock of it all.

Formari Cyril turned and left the hall, she had been dismissed.

“You are tranquil,” Owain said, and had he put a little bit more into it Zevran would have called him confused, maybe even hurt. “The guild is the only protection you have.”

“I no longer consider the cost of that protection to be worthwhile.” Ansera’s hands were moving, and Zevran realized it at the same time everyone else did that he was prying the white quartz ring he always wore off his finger. Rather than hand it to Owain, he dropped it to the floor and then knocked it away with his foot. “I expect such manipulations to manifest in the halls controlled by First Enchanter Irving’s successor and protégé, but not among the Formari Guildsmen. Good day, ser.”

“The position of Assistant Apothecary is reserved for a member of the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine, as outlined in the contract held by the Seneschal.” The third Tranquil, whom Ansera had called Nasser, spoke with a deep voice that was as unperturbed by all of this as the wind outside over the keep. Ansera was unbuttoning his blue formari robe, and he threw it on the floor in front of him. “You are elven. Therefore; it is reasonable to assume that you will starve to death without employment or protection within the next month. Maker Go With You.” Nasser left the way Cyril had already vanished. Ansera unbuttoned and removed the white robe like the blue, leaving himself in his shirt and belt and trousers, no outer layer to keep him warm or to mark him as a guildsman.

Zevran saw Soren flag Garevel’s attention with one hand, and the Seneschal bent to hear something whispered to him. Zevran’s fervent pleas to the Maker or Andraste or Hesserian or Shartan himself all fell flat like ash from the air. The quiet horror that broke over Garevel’s face said far, far too much about whatever Soren told him. He nodded, consented to what was asked of him, and returned to his place.

“Jylan,” Guildmaster Owain spoke, and the hall was deathly silent as the drama played out for them. “Reconsider this.”

“Maker Go With You, Owain.”

“You will die.”

“Maker Go With You, Owain.”

Owain closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, and finally cast his gaze to the floor. He found Ansera’s discarded ring and crouched for it, picking it up off the floor before turning and exiting the hall without another word.

 _‘Maker have mercy, Soren._ ’ Zevran closed his eyes because the thought hit and echoed within him. _‘Maker have mercy, please, please have mercy. He’s trying to save her life, don’t play the tyrant with this. Maker have mercy, brother, please…’_

“Compounder…” Soren’s voice did not come out right, because he remembered half-way through the name that Ansera had just renounced it. “Master Ansera… as the ruined party in this matter, what do you demand of the Warden who wronged you?”

Not only did the Maker not answer Zevran’s pleas, he put the worst possible answer into Ansera’s mouth:

“I demand the Warden Commander show humility and dismiss these proceedings entirely.”

Behind the throne Morrigan’s eyes widened like she’d been hit, and Garevel nearly stumbled from the shock. Renth’s face was pulled with scandal and Oghren was looking at Nathaniel who was not far away in the crowd, throwing his hands out like _‘what the fuck do I do now?’_. Startled words fluttered around the room like trapped birds winging between the pillars.

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Oh Maker, Soren was going to have Ansera imprisoned if not struck dead where he stood. Zevran wanted to just sit on the floor and put his head between his knees, this madness would not end.

“I am not a failed mage, your grace, I am a failed politician.” That made even less sense! “As I have already surrendered my guild ties and forfeited the right to my employment, any additional punishments for speaking truthfully must be relegated to purely financial, such as the unlawful withholding of my wages or belongings, or physical, in the manner of imprisonment or beatings. As this is a public forum, I am skeptical on both counts.”

“What the _hell_ are you talking about?”

“ _Jylan-_ ” Athras’ first word in long minutes, she had taken Zevran’s thoughts and lived them, now sitting on her knees where her legs had completely failed her.

“Your grace asked me what I demand from the Warden who wronged me, and I demand the Warden who wronged me dismiss these proceedings.”

“Have you lost your _mind?_ ” Zevran let himself wheeze the words out tightly because it was the only sensible thing _anyone_ could say to him.

“ _I_ am not the rapist in this room, Ansera,” Soren’s voice hinted at his anger but he was still more shocked than enraged. How _dare_ the idiot talk to him like that! He was going to get himself killed! “If you allow this, there will be no taking it back.”

“Dismiss these proceedings.”

Soren’s anger was palpable, and Zevran didn’t know if he had the emotional strength left to judge him for it. Let this end, just let it be over.

His friend lifted his staff, banged the enchanted end on the floor, and silenced his hall again.

“Release the rapist,” he ordered, and the guards standing over Athras shifted oddly, then knelt and removed her bonds. The only sound as the manacles opened were her gasps and hiccups of relief. “These proceedings are dismissed.” They could leave, it was done.

“I’m taking him home.” Zevran turned and saw Samar standing there with both hands over his face, fingertips pressing his eyes into his skull. “I’m taking him home; I’m not leaving him in this fucking hell hole.”

“I hope you get the opportunity,” Zevran told him, _exhausted_ by all of this before he turned to look at the throne again. Oghren had vanished into the crowd which was now dispersing, Renth was meeting with several of her men and casting repeated looks at Athras. Soren was listening to Garevel and Morrigan speak quietly over him, his fingers laced together in front of his shielded face.

Zevran watched his hands, heart hurting. Any moment now, there would be a sign from his friend indicating Ansera, not to kill him of course, but to have him brought somewhere private where any of those horrible accusations made in the heat of the moment could be dragged out and the Tranquil punished for them. It didn’t matter if it was true: if Soren had done this with Owain’s approval and knowledge; if they’d set a trap for Arthas and tried to spring it on her. None of it mattered, Ansera had accused both the guild _and_ the Arl and in a more vicious court that would be a death sentence.

Soren’s hands didn’t move. The hall was emptying.

Please don’t let his hands move.

“ _Jylan-_ ” Sweet Andraste, _no-_

 _“An’eth!_ ” Lavellan’s voice barked in the din.

The sound of her voice made Ansera walk a little faster to reach his brother, a change Zevran was not alone in noticing. Maker, but it looked like fear, even if it wasn’t supposed to be.

She tried to reach him and Zevran was not in the right position to get between them. An old, old reflex turned his head sharply when he heard the suck and pull of steel against leather. His own knives, small things, delicate but sharp, were between his fingers without having to think it, and the only thing that stopped his wrist from sending the blades slicing through the thin front of Samar Ashera’s soft clothing was what _he_ did first.

Because it was so deliberate. So unmistakable.

The flip from blade to pommel, and the quick release between two fingers that launched the knife hilt-first through the air. Hilt-first, not blade. Non-lethal, a warning. Not a mistake either: he had drawn it and habitually held it by the tip for a pinch grip, then flipped it on purpose and released it like a dove from a cage.

The hilt slammed into Athras’ eye and dropped her with a horrified yell. The blow bought Zevran time and he was between them before Lavellan could recognize what had happened and bring magic to a knife fight.

“Enough,” Zevran said, telling himself not to be impressed with how very quickly Samar had two proper fighting blades out in his hands. Lethal things, well-taken care of with blades that did not match the hilts _at all_. There was no way steel with etchings like that owned the rough leather and wood hilts attached to them. No, no, that was a method of misdirection, right there. “I understand, but no.”

“She stays the hell away from him.” He was offended when Samar made the statement by waving one of those knives in his face. Unnecessary! “I’ll not warn her twice.”

“Then do not linger here. Take your brother to his room to calm down, _both of you_.”

“The arrangement is concluded.” The tranquil was behind his brother now, and did not look around or over his shoulder at Zevran. “I will not see her again.”

“Yes, Ansera, I understand. Go, there will be gossip enough for weeks over this, you fool.” That knife waved past his nose again.

“Watch it.”

“I am already watching _your back_ ,” Zevran told him shortly. “ _Go_.”

And in the din and upset of the emptying hall, finally, they left.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOMP THERE IT IS
> 
> There's a whole second act coming that's entirely Jylan's fault because he didn't let me let Soren do exactly what he was planning. Let me know what you think with a comment below!


	24. Dimissal

 

“If I told you that I had no intention of actually executing Athras, would you believe me?”

Zevran didn’t think he wanted to have this conversation, but the hysteria of the day lent itself to passivity. He had left the Ansera brothers in their room but surrounded by frantic friends and fellow servants, and returned first to Soren’s busy court chamber.

He had arrived in time to hear Captain Renth of the Silver Order disrespect a Grey Warden for the first time. Gone was Warden-Corporal Athras, the human captain was incensed over the Dalish Rapist and had already commanded patrols and scrutiny of the other woman’s activities.

An’eth had been struck by the blunt end of a throwing knife and it had bruised her eye terribly, but she had been gone with Mahanon Lavellan still idling in the court chamber. Zevran’s quiet inquiry had resulted in the other elf looking very uncomfortable for several seconds, then stating he’d told her to find elfroot balm to handle something as delicate as an eye.

The former First’s real answer tumbled out moments later:

“I can heal an eye,” He stated brutally. “Maybe not as easily as Surana or Guerrin, but I can handle a bruised eye just fine. What I can’t do is erase the only justice Ansera’s family squeezed out of today: no Keeper would dare invalidate a family member’s anger like that. He showed honour enough by using the hilt instead of the blade on his brother’s rapist, you can’t expect me to provide relief of such a minor sting when she _could_ have been just as easily dragged to the executioner’s block without Ansera throwing himself on a sword for her. I know he meant it as a rebuttal to the Commander and the Guildmaster for manipulating things in their favour, but Jylan didn’t _have_ to protect her, and the other- Samar? He didn’t _have_ to use restraint.”

Everything could have gone so horribly, and Zevran was convinced that this was only the beginning of Athras’ troubles in Vigil’s Keep. The people who worked the fortress thought her a rapist whose victim had protected her. The militia had a Warden to resent for her horrible actions but preserved status. The Wardens had someone undeserving serving right beside them.

It would get ugly, but not today. Today Zevran was here, in the war room and seated around the massive table with its enamelled map of Ferelden set into the dark wood. Soren had opened two bottles of wine, Oghren had opened a modest cask of ale, and Nathaniel was bleary-eyed from drinking both while trying to settle his head after the upset in the throne room. Zevran had sipped slowly from the wine: it was one of the darker, heavier vintages that Soren preferred and it sat in his mouth with its rich flavour.

Soren waited, fingers threaded together in front of him, and was still looking at Zevran when he pulled his gaze from the wine to the Arl.

There had not been much talk this afternoon. Oghren kept repeating to himself and the table that the whole matter of Athras and Ansera was _‘unbelievable_ ’ and _‘out-of-hand_ ’ and _‘doesn’t make a sodding lick of sense’_. Nathaniel drank deeply from his cup and Zevran couldn’t remember if the human was drinking wine or ale presently, and it probably didn’t make a difference to him. When Nathaniel did choose to speak, it was to repeatedly murmur _‘what’s Connor gonna say?’_ or _‘I should be the one to tell him. I’ll tell him. He should hear it from me.’_

Athras had been given the Joining largely due to her own abilities, but Connor’s contribution and support had been crucial to seeing her get that far. She was, in an informal manner, _his_ Warden. Connor’s connection to Ansera didn’t require explanation. It all made a mess of matters: Connor’s Warden had exploited and harmed his best friend and dependant. The young mage would lose more than just his composure when he returned home to this revelation.

Zevran finally answered his friend. So he he’d had _no intention_ of sharpening the executioner’s sword?

“ _Are_ you telling me that, or are you being facetious?”

“Does it make a difference?”

“Yes.”

“Then no, I’m not being facetious, Zevran, I’m telling you: I had no intention of executing anyone.”

“Oh, Thank the Maker,” Nathaniel coughed the words, eyes closed, and sat there on his seat with his eyes shut, brows gathered like he felt a headache coming on. “I couldn’t stand hearing Owain say it like that.”

“But you were plannin’ _something_.” Oghren’s gruff voice rumbled out from under his breastplate. “You can’t bullshit us.” Soren’s smile should have comforted him but Zevran was not satisfied by the twist of his friend’s lips.

“I don’t remember trying to,” he said lightly. Zevran sipped his wine again. “I hadn’t made up my mind exactly, but I didn’t think it would be appropriate for Athras to remain in Vigil’s Keep. If that meant simply sending her off as an envoy somewhere or out of the Wardens completely, I hadn’t decided. If that bit of fire and venom from Renth means anything, she’ll probably be gone by her own volition by midwinter at the latest.”

“So Ansera threw himself on his sword for _nothing_...” Nathaniel was nearly wheezing, eyes still closed, lips barely moving. Had he not been a Grey Warden Zevran might have considered that he was about to pitch over from too much drinking. Two bottles and a small cask between three Wardens was nothing. “Connor deserved better than this.”

Zevran felt his teeth set against the rim of his glass. Oh, _Connor_ deserved better? The Grey Warden and Archmage? The man descended from one of the strongest noble houses in Ferelden, who had exclusive power and control over his sister’s extensive wealth until she came of age? _He_ deserved better from all this? Boo-hoo, he wasn’t the one out of a job, out of his guild, and likely soon to be out of his home if the rumours whirling throughout the keep were true.

“We’ll just have to address it when he comes home.” Was Soren being politic again, when he agreed that Connor needed support? Connor was thousands of miles away, he would _survive_. “For now, it’s important that things move forward. Garevel will see Ansera compensated and I’m quite certain his brother will help him settle elsewhere if he doesn’t make the right choice and go back to his guild. Owain will take him back.”

“And if he doesn’t want to go back?” Zevran asked, removing the glass before he could bite down and fill his mouth with cutting shards. Soren’s dismissive look was not helping.

“He’s tranquil; he’ll want whatever makes the most sense and that means apologizing and making amends with Owain.”

“He threw his ring on the floor, my friend. You don’t need to be emotional to understand the insult behind such an act.”

“To quote the seneschal,” Soren drawled back, leaning back in his chair with his fingers still tented in front of him. “The only insult a Tranquil can give is a distasteful observation of true behaviour. He probably dropped it just to avoid coming too close to the Guildmaster.” That was _not_ how it had happened and Zevran took a steady breath, refusing to take the topic any further. They were not going to argue again. He swallowed more wine and then moved to refill his glass. Soren amicably picked up the bottle and poured a generous serving for Zevran and then emptied the last of it into his own glass.

The Wardens talked the matter of elves and tranquil to death and finished their drinks.

Zevran sat there and weighed his options.

* * *

 

Jeevan was tranquil. Samar kept thinking he understood this, but he didn’t, and fuck him if he was okay with trying to get around this fact again right _now_.

He said he wasn’t upset, just tired, and Samar wanted to grab him and shake him and get him to just _be upset_. Get angry! Raise his voice! Cry a little- _anything!_

But he wasn’t. He couldn’t.

He’d lost his job and- _Maker’s Breath_ , that should have been the least of it but it wasn’t. Samar wanted to take and unpack every single thing he’d just gone ahead and _assumed_ about Warden Athras and make his brother explain it _all_ , but neither of them could get over the hurtle of his job. He’d lost his _job_.

“The monthly payments sent to our siblings in Gwaren will end.” Samar didn’t know how much that amount was in silver and copper, but Jeevan repeated it too many times for them to ignore it. Samar didn’t know how much Rian made these days; he knew Ariyah’s washing and laundry work only amounted for a few coppers a week. Saya- _fuck_ , Saya made _less_ when she made anything at all, and Jenna worked for room and board. “It will be difficult to find work due to my condition. Because I am elven, any work I do acquire will likely result in wages undercut due to my race.”

“Anything you make will be something,” Samar blurted out, head spinning. “But you’ve gotta take care of yourself first, you’re no good to anyone if you starve to death on slave wages.” He could read, he could write, he could do maths and that wasn’t even touching on any of the shit he did as an apothecary. He’d find a job if Samar and Rian had to knock on every door in the city.

“I do not know how soon I will be expected to leave Vigil’s Keep.”

“You’ll come with me to Gwaren.” It was the only thing that made _sense_ and Samar wasn’t wrong for saying it because Jeevan didn’t correct or refuse him.

“I do not know if I possess the necessary coin to afford passage on your ship.”

“Are you saying you’ve kept _nothing_ for yourself?” Samar would take it out of his own pay for this trip then. There, done.

“I do not know-” The sound of someone knocking on the cell door startled both of them and Samar was the one to open it with a hand on the blade at his belt. If it was _that woman…_

“ _Jylan!_ ” It wasn’t the Warden, it was the _Hamae_ Valora. The small woman had wisps of grey hair falling from the tight bun atop her head, her black shawl slipping off one thin shoulder. Samar got right out of her way and let the midwife rush into the room and put her hands on his brother, who was silent and staring blankly at her. “No- no! It’s not what they’re saying, you can’t be sent away- _no._ ”

“I have not yet spoken to Seneschal Garevel, but my dismissal is assured.”

“ _No!_ ” The old woman was crying.

“Ansera-” A young elven woman followed the midwife: her granddaughter Vessa. Black hair and pale skin with thin red lips, Valora had probably been a looker like her when younger. Samar had spoken to Vessa a few times: she was a hunter and forager who knew the wildlands around the Vigil and usually worked the fortress's chanter's board. She stopped and gave Samar a respectful nod, waiting for him to gesture for her to come inside before stepping past him.

“You’re going to give me a straight answer, Ansera. What did An’eth do to you?”

“It is a complicated matter, Mistress Vessa.”

“ _Bullshit!”_ Vessa shouted, and Samar took a breath to shout her down. “She’s a Grey Warden and _my friend!_ ”

“ _Hey!_ ” He barked at her, getting the hunter to spin and _yes_ he’d get into it with her if she took that line with Jeevan.

“True or not, Vessa, the solution isn’t to _fire him_!” Valora was beside herself, but her voice had no bite and no command in it. The words crumpled and she caught herself with tears and a shaking breath, turning from them to pull her arms around Jeevan in a tight hug. He didn’t react to the embrace at first, and only very slowly came around to return it gently.

“It’s a fucking mess, is what it is.” Samar agreed solemnly, looking at Vessa whose eyes were only for her grandmother’s shaking back. “If she’s _your friend_ then go talk to her, and make sure she knows to stay the hell away from my brother and I.”

“Fine, I will,” Vessa told him straight. “Hamae?”

“Go find out, girl.” She left after that, but Valora remained and Jeevan was able to coax her to sit on his bed with her face in her hands. He stood completely still and just watched her for a few long seconds, then roused himself and repeated:

“The payments to Gwaren will end.” Samar didn’t know how to get him passed this.

“I’ve got half a sovereign to my name when we get into Gwaren, Jeevan, that’ll get everyone through the winter.”

“You’re taking him south?” Valora looked up with her question and Maker Take Them she looked _ancient_. “It makes sense, but it’s so far… How large is your family?”

“Our sisters have five kids between them,” Samar explained, “Another brother a year older than Jeevan, and a sister whose barely of age to work.” The midwife was counting on her fingers.

“How old are the children?” Oh _Maker_ , she was making him remember things he didn’t worry himself with unless he was home.

“Eldest can’t be more than eight, I think? Saya had hers this summer.” He didn’t know if the babe had survived since then but he knew Saya herself had been alright after the birth. Valora was pawing vacantly at Jeevan until she found his hand and grasped it, looking up at him woefully.

“Before you both leave, make sure you come by my hutch. Even if your sisters don’t end up needing what I give you, _someone_ in the alienage will.” Jeevan nodded.

“Thank you, Mistress Valora.”

“If you’re dismissed, Jylan,” she continued, “Don’t you dare leave a single one of your tools behind in this keep. Connor bought every single knife and mallet and bowl in that workshop, and he got two of everything for a reason. You take what’s yours and you leave nothing behind, not a chipped glass or worn out sock, you hear me?”

“I will consider it, Mistress.”

“Not consider, _do_.”

If Valora wanted to come with them then Samar wouldn’t have been against paying for _her_ passage too.

Jeevan didn’t know if he was still allowed to eat from the Vigil’s kitchen but that question was solved by a brisk-looking dwarven woman and an accompanying human, both of whom smelled like roasted mutton and baked bread. Samar recognized the sad-eyed human woman as the one who regularly passed out the servants’ dinner. She was holding a covered platter of something and she was very mild as she stood behind the dwarf, Mistress Felsi.

“Garevel’s got his ass on his head and no brains worth boiling if he turns you out on your nose when it was _that Warden_ who can’t keep her man-eater muzzled!” Samar, a sailor by profession, had no words and no composure to use in the wake of the _profanity_ that dropped from the Quartermaster’s mouth. Andraste’s Sweet Bosom, he expected it from fishwives and soldiers and sailors like himself, not _kitchen cooks_. “You eat this, and you eat the whole damn thing. Lick the plate before you bring it back! I’m giving the seneschal and my lummox husband a crust of bread and an apple for dinner. Valora, you come with me: you need the right kind of drink and I know where the Arl’s good wine is.”

The human woman left extra cutlery before nodding quietly to them and leaving with Felsi and Valora. This left Samar and his brother alone again, and even if Jeevan didn’t feel curiosity he still knew hunger, and Samar couldn’t leave it alone anyways. Neither of them had eaten since that morning, and it was well into evening by now.

A bed of salted and roasted turnips with onion halves and a beaten cloud of potatoes whipped with butter. The _meat_ was dark and rich and glistening with roasting oils, a pot of gravy sitting on the side, fresh peas decorated with rosemary strands piled up beside that large chunk of _meat_. Actual red-blooded _meat_. He’d only been in Vigil’s Keep for a few weeks, but even Samar knew a _Warden meal_ when he saw and smelled one.

Fuck, this was a goodbye meal. Samar made sure not to take more than his brother did. Jeevan took the first and last bites from the plate, all with the same blank, vacant look he always wore. His eyes didn’t tear up as he was given food cooked in a way he might never taste again, he didn’t suddenly stop and look miserable, or turn away and withdraw from nerves or pain. He just stood there and they ate together.

Try as he might, and as close to smiling as he came, Jeevan couldn’t make his brother actually lick the plate.

“You’re really gonna go against the woman who gave you this meal?” Jeevan gave him a blank, mile-long stare, then regarded the picked over platter again. “She said _lick it_.”

He wiped it with his thumb and sucked the juice and gravy off like that a few times. Close enough.

Samar’s almost-good mood was threatened the next time he opened the door, and was met with the sight of an elven servant wearing the blue and gold livery of the castle. Not everyone who served the Wardens or the Arl got to wear a tunic and belt like that: Jeevan didn’t, the Quartermaster didn’t, no one who worked outside the keep proper did either. As far as drone workers went, this was a higher ranking one who spoke down his nose at Samar despite being so much shorter. Samar, in turn, wanted to hit him on his straight little nose.

“The Seneschal has summoned your brother, ser.” If the Seneschal was gonna turn Jeevan out an hour before sunset then Samar was absolutely going to hit _someone_. “Follow me.”

They followed, and Samar watched his brother very carefully as they walked. He seemed to have forgotten that he’d stripped off his guild robes because he kept his head bent down like he still had a hood to hide under. It took until they were well on their way before Samar noticed he couldn’t hear Jeevan’s footsteps at all: had he always walked like that? Rolling on the outside of his foot, not quite taking a full stride? It wasn’t the smooth and capable glide of someone who was sneaking around without wanting to be heard, Samar could do that pretty well when pressed, but Jeevan was just walking quietly.

No, he hadn’t always walked like that. He didn’t do it when they ran errands around the keep, he didn’t hunch over unless he didn’t want to be noticed. In hooded robes none of it would be easy to catch, but he was just in a tunic, trousers and boots right now: it was _obvious_.

“Hey,” Samar took his arm gently with one hand, throwing off his balance and forcing him to take normal steps again and look at him. He forced a smile and Jeevan just looked at him with his vacant thousand-yard stare, and it made it harder to hold the smile. “It’ll be okay.” He didn’t expect an answer.

“No it won’t.” Samar… would have preferred silence.

The servant brought them to the Seneschal’s office up somewhere in the middle floors of the keep and then slipped inside briefly. He came back out and opened the door for both Samar and Jeevan to enter, then bowed and left.

“Master Ansera, Master Ashera.” Garevel was on his feet to greet them behind his desk, and he had two chairs set out which he swept his hands toward. There was a fatigued shine oiling his cheeks and brow, and the room smelled stale from the unchecked fire and stacks of ash from burned parchment. His great ledger was still spread atop the desk, but it was pushed over to the side and forced to the corner, a bunch of satchels and items and one strange wooden box taking up the rest of the space. “Please, gentlemen, a seat. Have you both eaten? I will ring for something if not- in fact, Linderel!”

The elven servant reappeared at the door. Samar twisted to get a good look at him.

“A bottle of the Arl’s good cherry wine, if you please- two bottles!” Linderel let his eyebrows move way up his face, but with a nod he vanished again as silently before. If this kept up the Arl wasn’t going to have any more of his good wine left.

“Today has been…” Garevel spoke but his words rambled off to nothing. He stared blankly between the chairs Samar and Jeevan had taken across from him, and then thumped one hand on his desk. “It doesn’t matter how it’s been on my end. Forget I even opened with that. Master Ansera, do you remember what this is?” Garevel reached across his desk for the wooden box Samar had seen already.

“Yes, Seneschal.”

“Good, because I’m giving it back to you.”

The box was richly stained cherry heartwood, but not that old because it wasn’t that dark, just _red_ from the stain. It was about two hand-lengths long and half as deep, stood a span high. The top of it was decorated in painstakingly carved panels, none of which Samar could see properly from his seat, and there was braided copper running around the seam between lid and box with a small latch keeping it shut. Garevel touched the box when he spoke, then nudged it closer so Jeevan could reach it.

“Have you found it insufficient for your needs, Seneschal?”

“Perish the thought,” the human told him. “I’m deeply reluctant to part with it, but you will find it more useful from this point on and I have the means to acquire another one. If you would open it, please?”

Jeevan stood and did as he was told. It was just a box but Samar watched Jeevan fiddle with something on the side: he slid a piece of wood and withdrew a slim copper rod from the hidden compartment, and used it to stroke the panels on the top. He drew something on three of the panels and they lit up with a soft magical light, like sun peeking between curtains. Then the latch clicked and he carefully returned the rod to its place, closed the secret door, and opened it. The box was lined with what looked like fine red velvet, and was empty.

“Did… did you just use magic?” Samar just had to ask because Jeevan _had been_ a mage.

“No, it is an enchanted mechanism.” Jeevan explained, remaining on his feet because the Seneschal was busy looking sadly at his stupid box. “The rod and latch are infused with a small amount of lyrium, and the carvings on the box’s lid and sides were made with specially refined tools. Without forming the proper connection from key to lock, it will not open.”

“I commissioned it from your brother some months ago,” Garevel explained in a sad voice. “Formari lock boxes are no small investment, but your brother was able to borrow the necessary tools and lyrium to craft it for me. They cannot be picked or pried open, and the magic necessary to overwhelm the lock would destroy the contents. I honestly expected you to just glue six pieces of wood together and slap a lyrium rune on it, but the craftsmanship alone is- ugh, ignore me. It’s just a box. I’ll get Formari Nasser to make a new one.”

“So why are you giving it to him?”

“…Nasser will replace me.” _Oh._

Samar curled his lips into his mouth and pinched them. Tranquil, right? No emotions, supposedly? Then why did Jeevan’s quiet voice sound like a fucking knife in the ribs? Garevel made the most uncomfortable face, lips withered and white and his eyes wincing.

“I am afraid, ser, that your contract has been formally annulled by the Formari Guildsmen.” Fired. He’d been fucking _fired._ “The Guildmaster was here until not long ago and made it clear that you need only return to the guild hall in Amaranthine to reinstate yourself as a member, but under no circumstances are you to reengage in your employment at Vigil’s Keep on their behalf.” Samar jumped on this point.

“So why not just hire him again with the same contract but without the guild?” There were sailors’ guilds in cities across the waking sea and beyond. Little rag-tag unions of labourers and navigators and shipwrights and every other learned position aboard a vessel. They usually ran a tough gambit in the cities they were based in, made ships who called that port home suffer a little, but the benefit was a crew from the same guild would run and work hard together, turn a higher profit, and keep together for years at a time rather than just a few contracts. Still, even the strongest union would bend in the face of a sound decision made by a trusted captain.

If the Guildsmen were like those companies in the Free Marches, then there was formality but no actual power to stop Garevel from being the captain of his ship and hiring Jeevan back on for the job he was good at.

“The Arl has announced his support for the Formari Guildsmen.” Don’t use that weak-ass _‘woe are the wiles of the sea’_ bullshit voice, Garevel. Samar felt his grip getting tight on the arm of his chair. “As their patron, he has instructed the Guildsmen to receive the highest priority in these matters. Formari Nasser, as I’m quite sure you’re aware, Master Ansera, exceeds your qualifications by a significant margin…”

“Nasser is a Formari with extensive training in the art of Enchantment and Lyrium refinement.” Jeevan rambled off the statement and fell silent.

“I am deeply sorry, ser.” Jeevan didn’t answer. He stood there like that without moving until Garevel cleared his throat and asked him to sit again.

A soft knock admitted Linderel back into the room with two bottles of wine, three glasses, and a pitcher of something. The other elf flipped the glass cups and set them soundlessly on the crowded desk, presented the wine to the Seneschal for inspection to make sure it was the right bottle, and then uncorked and poured a small sample.

“Oh, just let me do it.” Garevel waved his hands at the servant. “A fine job, thank you, but I take no pleasure in all this. Is this water? Good, thank you, that’s enough.”

Linderel was sent away again. Garevel poured the wine for the three of them, taking less for himself before topping it with water. Samar wanted to throw the red at him. _Spineless._

“So you’re firing my brother because the Arl’s scared of his guild,” Samar hissed, clutching at his temper. “And in exchange he gets a fancy box and a glass of wine?”

“And six months pay, Master Ashera.” Garevel answered him quick and didn’t tell him to shut up, but he spoke over Samar when he opened his mouth again to- “I know a wrongful dismissal when it’s put in front of me, serrah, and as Seneschal and the man who held your brother’s contract, I intend to make as much good on it as I can. Did you not ask me why I am giving the box back? Would you not know the reason?”

Samar clicked his jaw tight and _shut up_.

“The typical allowance for dismissal is three months pay, Seneschal.” Jeevan spoke in his level voice and the Seneschal looked away from Samar, nodding to him.

“Yes, and I have decided to increase it to six, because I said so.” Well. _Fine._ “I would know if you prefer to have the amount withdrawn in coin and presented to you now, or sent away in installments to wherever you desire. If you remain in Amaranthine City, or find employment in Denerim, I will not deny you your pay, ser.”

“He’s coming with me to Gwaren,” Samar snapped and Garevel gave him a sharp look, sucked in a breath, and then looked determinedly back at Jeevan. The human didn’t speak until his brother did.

“I would request that the six months severance be forwarded in equal installments to the Gwaren alienage, Seneshal.”

“Very well, I shall make note of it.” Garevel moved around in his seat and reached for his great ledger, and did just that with his wooden pen. “As your brother Rian has done for the last year, you will be able to withdraw the money from the Dwarven Merchants’ Guild outpost in Gwaren on the first of each month. The severance pay will begin on the first of Firstfall.”

Jeevan was quiet, but then said something stupid:

“Seneschal, today is the twenty-nineth of Kingsway. The first month of severance should be the first of Harvestmere.” Firstfall was the month _after_ Harvestmere.

“I suppose it will be seven months pay then.”

“Seneschal-”

“- _Jeevan._ ” Don’t- argue about this! Shut up! _Shut up!_ “Drink some of that.” He pointed at the wine in his brother’s hand.

Okay, Garevel was spineless but not… _evil_. The human was totalling something in his ledger, tapping the end of his pen on things and counting quietly, then scribbled something down, and reached for the small satchels laid out in front of him. He picked up two, three, four of them and tugged the lockbox closer, placing three inside and offering the fourth to his brother. When the pouch landed in his hand, Samar’s ears heard coin.

“When you determined that you would send the entirety of your wages each month to Gwaren, interested parties intervened of their own accord and supplemented your income.” Wait, so, Jeevan _did_ have money? Like, his own money? “As was required: eight silver per month has been sent to your family, but a tenth of that amount was paid for by said parties, permitting an equal amount to remain in your name here at home. This was done so as to ensure you had something to live off of if you grew too old or ill to work, or as an additional boon if you died in service to the Vigil, upon which your family would receive the full amount now before you. Please do not be angry with Connor, he was not the one who arranged or paid for this, but he has known about it.”

One-tenth of eight _silver_ was almost _eighty copper_ a month. Samar didn’t know how many months he’d been sending money home for, but-

“The remaining balance would be five and a half silvers for seven months of transfers,” Jeevan knew the rest of the math to finish the equation, and opened the bag in his hand. Sure enough, there were twenty copper pieces inside when he poured a few out to look at them.

“Not including your wages from during the war, and since the time of your arrival at the Vigil.” Now Garevel had an abacus out with its clicking beads, referencing his ledger a few more times and turning the pages to get the information he wanted. “From Harvestmere of Nine-forty-three, with the outbreak of the war in Haring, nine-forty-four, and your return to the keep in Guardian… Three months of war service pay is an additional six silver… eight silver a month from Harvestmere to Cloudreach…” More clicking and humming, and then a hand raised to the two of them. “I already calculated this earlier, but it never hurts to be absolutely certain… yes.”

Five silver and sixty copper saved from his transfers to Gwaren. Six silvers for _war service pay?_ The war Amaranthine had with Redcliffe? And his pay before that, minus what little he’d spent on his own, was another _fifty silver_ -

“You only spent six silver on yourself in a whole half-year before finding Rian?”

“I did not have cause to spend more.”

Garevel gave him twenty copper in that little pouch, and then handed him a silver coin to add to it. The other _sixty silver pieces_ were split into three small purses with blue tassels and placed in the lock-box. Now Samar got it: if his brother was going to carry a small fortune around on a ship and into an alienage of all places, then he needed to keep his money safe. Garevel was making sure that even if Jeevan got robbed blind, the thief would never actually get the silver out of the box to use it.

Samar himself was entitled to fifty silver when they reached home, but he’d never dare carry that much coin around in his pockets. His pay was a leather seal he’d get from the captain and cash in at the company office, and then run like a dog back to the Alienage to squirrel away and _hide_ the coins where nobody would find them.

Maker’s Breath, between the two of them they were taking an _entire fucking sovereign_ home. Rian would weep when he saw them.

“There. And now that that is settled…” Garevel stood up, turned to the cabinets behind his desk, and unlocked one before withdrawing a wooden box with another lock on it, he placed that on the desk, opened it up, and while humming… Seals? Papers? What now?

“I understand, ser, that as a Tranquil you may not have been emotionally perturbed by repeated insistence from your former guildsmen that you will _certainly die_ without the Guild’s protections…” Garevel clicked his tongue and pulled out two more seals made of bone and ivory, then replaced the box and came back to his desk, opening a drawer and withdrawing several already written letters. He placed a mat of soft leather under the letters and sat down. “But I am not as resilient to such claims and poor behaviour, and I simply will not tolerate such outright disrespect in my Lord’s hall.”

Garevel lifted a stick of wax that had to cost more than all the money in Jeevan’s box. It was blue, for one, with gold leaf glittering through it. He heated it over the candle on his desk, smeared a long line of it across the bottom of a page illuminated with fine black, red, and blue ink, and then slammed one of those seals on the wax, pressing hard before taking two of the smaller ones and marking the page with them.

“Should you choose to return to the Formari Guildsmen at any point, that is entirely at your own discretion. For the moment, however, I will do my part.” The letter was handed to Jeevan, who didn’t seem to notice at first because Garevel was heating the wax again for another stamp. He hit the paper so hard Samar was afraid he might tear it, but this was _good_ paper. _Good_ paper didn’t rip.

Samar gently took the first letter from his brother, and Maker it had to be the most expensive thing he’d ever touched.

The Arl’s crest was drawn with deft black lines and fine glossy ink over the top and down the sides of the page: the Amaranthine Bear and Grey Warden Griffon flanking the tall tower of Fort Drakon. The wax seals were, in descending order: the Arl of Amaranthine, the Wardens of Vigil’s Keep, and the Seneschal himself.

But the _words_.

_To Relevant Honourable Persons,_

_The bearer of this letter is Jylan Ansera, an elven man of Tranquil nature, strong in body and fit of mind, and capable in all faculties. He carries the strongest recommendations of the Seneschal of Amaranthine, Lawrence Garevel of Vigil’s Keep._

_Before you is a candidate of employ with the finest education provided by the Ferelden Circle of Magi. His knowledge of chemistry, alchemy, botany, geometry, and mathematics are peerless among his kind and his aptitude for academic and scholarly pursuit are without equal. Diligence and the active labour of accomplishment colour his working hours with a glow the Maker Himself must have placed upon him._

_Confidentiality, professionalism, obedience, and respect are his ample currencies. His employment within Vigil’s Keep has been of the highest quality and it is with great reluctance that he has been released from his contract._

_Any challenges to his abilities or disrespect afforded to his elven nature will be taken as challenges and disrespect against myself personally as a Knight of Amaranthine and Seneschal of the Estates of the Arl of Amaranthine, Hero of Ferelden, Archmage Soren Surana of Ferelden_.

 _Walk in the Maker’s Light and let Andraste’s Guidance open your eyes to the wealth of opportunity before you_.

-Seneschal Lawrence Garevel of Vigil’s Keep, Administrator of the Estates of the Arl of Amaranthine, Hero of Ferelden, Archmage Soren Surana of Ferelden

Samar thought his eyes would drop out of his head. He gave the glossy parchment back to his brother and this time Jeevan actually read it. The second letter was exactly the same as the first, with only one change: instead of Jylan Ansera, this one was for _Jeevan Ashera_.

Another set of letters, slightly less terrifying from the first two, didn’t go as far as calling Jeevan’s abilities into question a slight worthy of Garevel taking that sword and shield down off his wall, but they still came with his titles and the weight of his seal. If Jeevan wanted to, like, work for the Teyrna of Gwaren, the _Queen_ , then the first letter would be good. If he just wanted to squeeze into the first little apothecary shop he found in the city, then the second letter would be a bit less ready to smite the owner on the spot.

All four letters were placed very _very_ carefully into the lock-box.

“Will your brother be making the journey to Gwaren aboard your ship, Master Ashera?” Samar was now fucking scared of the human across from him, and Garevel was done being spineless and weepy. He drank his wine and set it down with a smug, powerful grin that Samar was _never_ going to be okay with watching on a human’s face.

“Uh- yes, ser. We assumed I would pay for his passage, but-”

“Nonsense, the Vigil will pay.” Okie-dokey, Samar was _not_ going to argue. Garevel pulled out a different kind of paper this time, almost bone-white and stiff, and he wrote in his neat and even script before stamping it at the bottom, handing it to Samar. It was a writ of passage. Holy _shit_. Samar had seen nobles use these to get from place to place, not _elves_. “Present this to your captain.”

“Yes, Seneschal.”

“Drink your wine, Master Ashera,” He drank his fucking wine, he did. “It is the Arl’s favourite and wouldn’t do to waste. The second bottle, along with my personal regards, you will also present to your captain.” Yes, he fucking would.

“I don’t recall you bringing many belongings with you to the Vigil when you arrived, Master Ansera.”

“No, Seneschal.”

“You own the tools in the workshop and I expect you will need a trunk or two in order to pack them all. You may request the aid of any servant in the keep for the task, and I will have two trunks delivered to the workshop tomorrow morning. A cart and driver will also be arranged to transport you safely to Amaranthine City, with accommodations until your ship is ready to embark.”

“Thank you, Seneschal.” Jeevan was staring and not moving: he was as fucking confused as Samar was and _good!_

“The workshop’s current quantity of refined lyrium, serrah, what is it?” The sudden question kept Jeevan quiet as he thought.

“Only a set of four vials, Seneschal.”

“Provided the lyrium fits safely and without concern into the lock-box, you will depart with that as well.”

“I do not understand, Seneschal.”

“You are no longer a part of your guild,” Garevel told him briskly. “The fact that you were never fully trained as a Formari is now irrelevant: you _can_ enchant items, and you _can_ make Formari goods. But without access to the Guild or the Chantry you’ll have an impossible time finding the lyrium for it. Formari Nasser can order his own; you will take the workshop’s supply with you.”

Jeevan was quiet for way, way too long, but finally he nodded.

“Thank you, Seneschal.”

“That is nearly everything I called you here for, but Master Ashera, if I may have but one moment alone with your brother before you both retire for the evening?” Oh. Okay. Uh, yes. The man was throwing money and prestige at Jeevan like chum in the water. He could have asked Samar to do a hand-stand and sing an Orlesian folk song right now and he would have done it gladly. He finished his wine too fast to enjoy it and stood.

“I’ll be outside, Jeevan.”

“Seneschal?” Garevel turned a surprisingly warm look on his brother.

“This will not take long, serrah. This is a matter of you, myself, and Warden Guerrin.”

Samar stepped quietly, very very quietly, out into the hall. Shutting the door closed off the quiet conversation he left behind, and when he turned around he was looking at the servant Linderel.

The elf had his arms tightly crossed over his chest, a bitter look twisted all over his face.

“What? You step in something?”

“The Seneschal actually fired your brother, didn’t he?” Oh-? He’d read Linderel as one of those straight-laced foreign trained servants, the sort who could spout poetry and knew how many forks went with the master’s salad. Apparently not so. “An elf gets picked on by a Grey Warden, and _he_ loses his job?”

“Maybe I’m too stupid to read people, but the Seneschal’s awfully pissed about it too.”

“It’s the _shem_ Guildmaster, the whole keep’s whispering about it.” Linderel looked like he was about to spit, but was just a _little_ too well groomed for it. “The Arl always picks shem values over us, every time.”

“Ain’t he supposed to be some champion for elves?”

“If a champion makes sure the Amaranthine alienage looks no different from the ones in Denerim or Highever, then sure.” Linderel’s lips curled in an ugly way. “Isn’t it funny how your brother was an _assistant_ despite doing three times the work and being around more than Guerrin? Some noble-born _shem_ mage; Surana’s favourite.” Yeah, Samar had wondered about that whole assistant thing for a little while.

“How much do Wardens get paid, anyways?” They got a stipend or something, but Linderel just snorted at him for asking a stupid question.

“Doesn’t matter how many pieces when each one’s made of gold.” Okay, well, _war heroes_ , but that just made it sting a little more when Samar thought about it. Jeevan had helped the war too, apparently. Athras made such a good living, and now she got to _keep_ her living while Jeevan was shown the door?

“How much more of that fine wine does his lordship have?”

“None,” Linderel said in an open, honest voice. Way too open, way too honest. “Rats in the cellar, you see. They chewed right through the wood and brought the whole casement crashing to the floor, broken bottles everywhere. I haven’t told the Seneschal yet, we’re waiting until the, how should I say it, _mess_ cleans itself up.” So the servants were drinking themselves stupid on the master’s best vintage? Risky, but probably worth it.

“Would you like any help with that?” Samar asked with a smile. It felt like flirting. It felt like the other elf flirted back when he heard the proposal and brushed a finger over his lips as he listened. “Can’t eat if I don’t do _some_ hard work around this place.”

“I think that would be _very_ much appreciated. The kitchens have been such a mess this evening: one of the Wardens’ meals went _completely missing_ , and all the poor leaf-ear got was a crust of bread and an apple.” Leaf-ear; Dalish; _that bitch_.

The door opened and Jeevan came out, carrying the lock-box with both arms, the bottle of wine for Samar’s captain clutched by the neck. He looked no different than he normally did. He closed the door to the Seneschal’s office behind him and looked at Samar, then Linderel just to acknowledge him, then back to Samar.

“I am not confident that I will be able to keep the contents of this box adequately safe for the journey to Gwaren.” No, don’t talk like that.

“Well I am, because I’ll stick a knife in the first person who isn’t you that tries to take it.” Linderel snorted at him again. Hey, _stop that._

“In that case, I’ll inform the rest of the help not to go near it. Isn’t that the Seneschal’s?”

“He insists that I will make better use of it.”

“It’s _complicated_.” Samar helped his brother, rubbing his shoulder a few times. He felt cold without his robes on. “Go lock it up in the workshop, and maybe start organizing what to pack and what to leave behind. Unless you want to come along and get drunk.”

“Why not?” Linderel agreed. “I don’t think we’ve ever seen you drink more than a cup of something.” Oh, Jeevan was doing his stuck-frozen thing again.

“…I do not know what that would accomplish.” Linderel shrugged at him.

“Or not. It’s in your honour, but if you change your mind just come into the kitchens, you’ll hear us.”

“I will return to the workshop.” Jeevan decided.

“And _you?_ ” The servant asked, a lilt in his voice that sounded an _awful lot_ like flirting. Good, the evening was trying to make up for the shitty morning and afternoon.

“If there’s a job that needs doing, then I’m just the sailor to call.” And that job, an hour or so later, involved a lot of the best wine Samar had ever tasted, with some of the best company in the keep. For his last night in Vigil’s Keep it didn’t hurt that the Seneschal’s manservant wasn’t _quite_ so straight-laced either. A wimp who fell asleep with a bottle of wine in his blood, sure, but at least there was a bit of fun before that point.

Oh well.

Fuck Amaranthine.

Samar was ready to go home.

**-.-**

Knives and hand tools, seventeen pieces, steel.

Mortar and pestle, incredibly heavy, marble.

Mixing bowls, fragile, ceramic and glass.

Mixing bowls, not fragile, wood, copper, and steel.

Flasks, incredibly fragile, tempered glass.

Flask casements, light, wood.

Cauldron, heavy but not fragile, iron.

Cutting board, moderate weight, wood.

Refined Lyrium, fragile and volatile, four tempered glass flasks.

Formari lock-box containing unprecedented monetary and lyrium payload, cherry wood, not to be left unattended.

Gloves, apron, work-belt, personal notations book, graphite rod.

Four wool shirts, four cotton shirts, four pairs cotton trousers, four pairs wool trousers, four pairs socks, two tunics, one black robe, one winter cloak, one pair boots, one pair shoes, one leather apron, four sets smallclothes.

Embroidery loop, one set sewing needles, one set embroidery needles. Four bundles dyed thread, two bottles personal dye: yellow and green. Half yard embroidery pattern, incomplete.

Three hand-towels, personal soap, tooth powder and brush, comb, mirror. Personal tea blend.

Amara’s pendant.

His entire room was packed in less than ten minutes; the workshop took significantly longer.

“No! _No!_ You’re not leaving!” The greatest weight on his efforts were the constant interruptions, the most noticeable of which came from Rowan Guerrin. “You can’t leave! _You’re not allowed to leave!_ ”

“Although this transition may be difficult-”

“ _You’re not allowed to leave!_ ” Tears, and sobbing, and stomping feet. Fierce hugs which made it hard for him to breathe. A violent outburst of emotional magic which tore the borrowed spell-book to pieces and left it smoking on the floor. “Connor won’t let you leave- he’ll make you stay! He’ll come home and he-”

“Lady Rowan, your brother is many months’ travel from Vigil’s Keep, and even if he were to return he could not hope to overrule his superiors.” This fact did not reassure or calm her. This statement caused a fierce negative reaction which sapped her of immediate voice and focus. She became very quiet, but not calm, and fled the workshop in short order to escape the reality that he was leaving.

“For a girl her age that was… that was a lot.” Samar was mildly hung-over, but still capable and willing to help him pack. Fragile items were folded into Jylan’s clothes and placed like puzzle pieces into one of the two provided trunks. “Is she okay?”

“Her sense of anxiety around change is alarming, but she reacted much the same when Connor left.” Jylan explained, and resumed wrapping another glass bowl in one of his own wool shirts.

They were interrupted by a woman Jylan did not know, who offered him a small bundle of smoked deer meat and green vegetables, along with a pouch containing a piece of silver.

“For your journey,” she said.

“May I ask why you are giving these to me?”

“Last week my husband fell into the brick-maker’s fire and badly burned his arm and leg, but he says you stopped the pain and helped him long before the healer even arrived. Thank you, Serrah, Maker’s blessings on your journey.”

The food was placed on the work-table, and the silver was added to the amount inside the lock-box.

“No- _no_ , lift it again.” Samar cautioned, and Jylan pulled the mortar up and held it in both arms. It was very heavy. “What if we shove some of _my_ clothes in there to cushion this thing? Why is it made of _marble_ for Andraste’s sake?” Because-

“Are we interrupting?”

“ _Please_ interrupt us,” Samar complained, and Jylan placed the mortar down on the table so he would not drop it.

It was Warden Velanna, and her husband Warden Nathaniel. Samar pumped water to get himself something to drink and was ignored by the Wardens. Velanna hugged him, Nathaniel apologized to him for losing his job.

“You’ll be safe aboard a ship for most of the journey, but it _never_ hurts to be cautious, _Lethallin_.” Velanna handed him a wrapped bundle which contained two leather arm bracers and a steel fighting dagger.

“I will give these to my brother.”

“No, they’re for _you_ , Jylan.”

“You are mistaken, _Hahren_. I do not know how to fight.”

“Well, nothing _flashy_ ,” her husband incorrectly assumed with a jovial tone. “But the basics, of course.”

“I do not know where you assume I would have acquired such knowledge or practice.”

The Wardens became alarmed by this very simple reasoning. Samar also expressed alarm. Jylan did not know why they had assumed he could fight: he was tranquil. Any combat training he had received as an Apprentice was many, many years behind him now and had never progressed beyond introductory staff technique. He did not recall being very good at it.

“Okay well this, _this_ you know what to do with.” Warden Nathaniel reached for something at his belt and looked at his wife, who nodded and made an encouraging gesture with her hand. “From Velanna and I, and some of the other Wardens. We’ll not let Connor think we turned you out cold while he was gone.”

Four gold sovereigns were placed into his hand by Warden Howe.

Warden Velanna hugged him very, very tightly.

“Don’t you _ever_ ,” she told him, her voice thick with tears, “ _ever_ , hesitate to ask for help if you need it, _Lethallin_. I don’t care how small it might be, you write and you tell us.” She released him and they left.

He placed the money into the lock-box, but under the velvet bottom in the secret compartment containing the coins Garevel had sent Samar from the room before giving him. The five gold coins already in the box had been taken from Connor’s account in the Seneschal’s ledger, technically an unlawful act of theft, but one Jylan had not been able to successfully deny and which the Seneschal was convinced Connor would have demanded.

“Fuck, you can’t fight. Fuck. _Fuck_. I didn’t think of that. Fuck.”

“I will be safe in Gwaren.”

Samar made a noise which did not lend confidence to his assertion. It was necessary to remember that he was elven, therefore not easily or often protected from harassment by simple decency. He was also tranquil, a condition which rendered him an easy target.

Hm. Fuck.

Warden Lavellan interrupted their final act of packing by giving Jylan sincere apologies and speaking a Dalish blessing to protect him for his journey. He offered a pleated scarf of warm fennick fur to protect Jylan from the southern cold, and a small stone of beautiful amber to sell if he came short of money.

Warden Sephri gave him a blank spell-book, the purpose of which he could not divine as he did not possess magic or spell-power, but the book was finely made and of good quality. She also hugged him. She threatened retribution for Samar if Jylan should die on the journey to Gwaren, but then gave his brother a pendant which hummed with protective light before leaving.

“I must visit Midwife Valora.”

“And get your dog. The _dog_ is how we’re gonna get around you not fighting, I feel better now.”

Jylan was wearing his boots, wool trousers, a wool shirt, a tunic, and the cloak he had worn over his robes from Amaranthine to Redcliffe last winter. His gloves would keep his hands warm, the fur scarf from Warden Lavellan was folded around his neck and cushioned the cloak’s clasp. He remained cold without his Formari robes, but was no longer entitled to wear them.

Dirthamen was sullen in his crate and reportedly had not eaten since Jylan’s altercation with the Former Kennelmaster. The hound was misery and despair, and did not move save to look up a little, head down, when the door was opened. The handler was deeply sympathetic and clearly distraught by the hound’s disposition. Samar gave Jylan a rude look for having mistreated Dirthamen.

Jylan did not see how kneeling beside the animal and rubbing its head would resolve the matter. Kneeling as such was uncomfortable and the crate was very large, so he sat down instead.

Samar closed the cage door.

“Why did you do that?”

“Talk to your dog.”

“Samar, I cannot reach the latch from within the cage.”

“Talk to your fucking dog.”

“It was not necessary to close me in here.”

“I don’t see you hugging your dog and I’m not letting you out until you do.”

“Samar.”

He could extend both legs fully and sit up straight with his back to the crate wall. He could not stand, but was not unduly cramped.

He rubbed the dog’s head until Dirth heaved up and dropped over his lap, one paw thrown over his legs. He rubbed the animal’s shoulder and neck, and when the sensation in his fingers became numbed from the coarse fur he scratched instead. Dirth adjusted again, and Jylan was able to check the dog’s paws for the offensive nail that had caused such unnecessary distress two days ago. It was fine. There was nothing wrong.

The hound sat up and came closer to him, bumping its head into his shoulder. More attention. He scratched the hound’s neck and chest, and eventually Dirth bowed his head and thumped it to Jylan’s chest, cuddling onto him as yet another person intent on embracing him in some way today.

“I am hugging the dog: you may now let me out.”

“No, not yet.”

“You are being unreasonable.”

When Dirth was convinced to sniff, and then enthusiastically eat, a bowl of dried meat with a few fresh strips of ram heart, Samar finally unhooked the latch on the cage and permitted both of them to get out. The dog stared up and wagged its tail at Jylan, and offered Samar a friendly sniff and headbutt, but remained somewhat reserved. While Jylan had been inside the crate, his brother had assembled a small kit of necessary items for the animal’s keep.

The last place to go, after the cart was loaded with one light and one heavy trunk, was to Mistress-

“Master Ansera,” -Correlay? And Mistress Stockard. And Natalie Stockard. And-

They were outside midwife Valora’s hutch, with the midwife herself, and each of them was waiting patiently for Samar and Jylan to approach.

“You’ve given me absolutely no time, for shame.” Seamstress Correlay was brisk with him, and foisted a bolt of woven fabric into his arms. An entire bolt. The weight was significant, and the gesture itself was mystifying. It was undyed wool, finely made, with many hours of hard work put into every yard of it. He did no know why he was holding it. “It would have been a proper set of clothes for you but no, I could not even speak with you first. Therefore this will have to suffice.”

“I do not understand-”

“Have you no sisters in Gwaren?” She clicked her tongue at him bitterly. “Not one among you who can sew?”

“ _Sarah,_ ” Mistress Stockard warned in a quiet voice.

“I am able to sew, Seamstress Correlay.”

“So can our sisters, yeah,” Samar was mystified as well and helped him by taking the burden of the bolt off Jylan’s arms. “Is this, uh, for us?”

“No, I just make a habit of throwing heavy things at elves.”

“Sarah!” Mistress Stockard repeated, more firmly and Valora was biting the inside of her mouth. A pinched look crossed Seamstress Correlay’s face, and she looked at Jylan bitterly.

“Travel safely, and put that fabric to good use. If you know _so much_ about dyes then you’ll need to make sure your family is dressed properly for winter.”

“Sarah _enough_.” Mistress Stockard came forward and offered him yet another embrace, smiling at him very sadly despite there being no reasonable need to assume his leave-taking should upset her. “My brother already spoke to you? I should hope so. Natalie?”

Warden Howe’s niece came forward with a basket covered with soft linen and held it up proudly to her mother, who then presented it to Jylan. Inside was a loaf of bread, four honey cakes wrapped in paper, and six jars of preserved jams and salted meat. There was a small fabric doll stitched together with many different kinds and colours of fabric, and when Jylan noticed it he saw Miss Natalie puff up very proudly with a smile.

“Thank you, Miss Stockard,” he said to the girl. “Thank you, Mistress Stockard. And thank you, Seamstress Correlay.” The human women nodded to him.

Mistress Valora was very upset to see him leaving. Her thin mouth was pulled into a tight frown, her large eyes overwhelmed with quiet pain. He did not know how to comfort her and was of a mind to depart quickly so as to expedite the process of easing her loss. Her parcel was a wooden box, thin and cheap, with several familiar bottles resting inside which she walked him gently through.

“Snowdrop oil, for birthing pains.” She explained to him in a brittle voice. “Let the woman drink one teaspoon and no more for every six hours of labour, any more and she may lose her heartbeat. Use the verdant branches either to make one of your tonics, or for a toothing babe to mouth on and ease pain. Arbour Blessing balm for rashes, and honey wax for keeping skin smooth and healthy in winter. The rest you’ve made so many times you could put them together in your sleep, _dahlen._ ”

She closed the box and drew in a ragged breath, eyes red and tears beading in her eyes. She murmured that the two fat pheasants had been caught and smoked by Vessa, and handed them to him by the tight cords woven around their petrified feet, the feathers, heads, and offal long gone.

“ _Please_ write when you’re safely with your family, _dahlen_. You’ll worry me too much if you don’t.”

“I will make a concerted effort to do so.”

“I’ll send my prayers whichever way will carry you safely. Please, _please_ , be safe.”

Here, Jylan knew the appropriate thing to say.

“ _Ma serranas, Hamae_.”

They put the fabric, and the basket, and the two trunks up on the cart. They rode alongside several overburdened crates of raw wool bound for the weaving houses of Amaranthine City, with an old human driver who didn’t care much for elves but didn’t have enough wool to shove them off the cart. They had too much food for a day or a night, but Samar said they would likely be in Amaranthine for a week before the _Lady Freeborn_ would leave, and the food would keep them well fed without spending any money.

They left Vigil’s Keep at noon on the thirtieth day of Kingsway.

 “A pleasantly fine day to begin a journey, no?”

And behind them, quite deliberately, was a lone horse and cheerful elven rider.

“Master… Arainai?”

 

 


	25. Master Arainai (End Of Book One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Book One"? idk, man, it just feels like this is a trilogy in and of itself this fic is very long.  
> That said, this chapter was incredibly fun to write.

 

Master Arainai was following them. It was both obvious and deliberate, but the only possible explanations for this behaviour were excessively negative and disheartening.

It was deliberate because a fine horse like the one he was astride could easily have outpaced the ox-cart carrying Jylan, Samar, and Dirthamen, provided the rider had simply upped the animal’s pace to a modest canter. Instead, it was plodding along at a walk, right beside the cart.

It was obvious because from his perch behind Samar, Master Arainai continuously made attempts to converse with them.

“Are we blocking the road?” Samar questioned him, twisting around on the crate of wool he was sitting on to see the other elf, who was grinning.

“Not at all! It is a fine stretch of highway as you can see, plenty enough for two such carts to pass with ease.”

“Then you could just, y’know, go around us.”

“I think I will not.”

Master Arainai was dressed very warmly and joked with them that he had never quite gotten used to the cold of Ferelden. He wore fine black leather boots with tufts of grey wolf fur feathered from the top under his knees. The grey of his trousers was visible only along his thighs before a curtain of sparkling silverite links fell past the edge of his black tunic, which was cut in several places with bands of grey wool and glossy black leather. There were metal plates layered under the embossed leather finish of his vambraces, a detail Jylan was only aware of because he had seen the foreign elf wearing them during the war and had observed him cleaning them. It was very likely he wore a gorget of some kind under his clothing, the fur enclosed around his throat and fluttering to his chin hiding any sign of it. His cloak was heavy and full, the pelt of some great beast making up the inside of it. His horse was creamy white, and his blond hair was swept back in a braid and knotted behind his head, showing off the three smooth lines tattooed down the side of his smiling face.

Jylan considered it reasonable to assume that the assassin was following them either to relieve them of the Cherrywood lock-box in Jylan’s sore arms, or to kill them. He did not know what the ultimate purpose behind either act would be except to offer unnecessary terror on the road, but he was faced with limited alternatives. Master Arainai was Warden Commander Surana’s right hand and shadow: for him to leave Vigil’s Keep without the Archmage meant he was being sent on some manner of business, and that he tarried beside the ox cart indicated that they were involved with said business.

Jylan did not voice his concerns to Samar because Arainai was close enough to overhear him should he do so, and that would expedite the process of either theft or execution.

“Why are you following us?” Samar demanded, likely a response to fear.

“I’m not following you!” Arainai chirped from his slow, plodding horse. “I’m riding to Amaranthine.”

“At _the slowest_ possible pace. You may as well have walked.”

“So could you, wouldn’t it be a shame if-”

“If you whittled away part of the axel to make this thing break I’m gonna tackle you off that horse.”

“ _Drat_ , I knew I forgot to do _something_ this morning.” Samar looked away from the other elf with a disgusted look, and then slid down off his crate, arms folded, fingers teasing the hilt of one of his knives.

 _‘He’s gonna kill us_ ,’ his brother mouthed, hidden by the crate between him and Arainai. Jylan was inclined to agree.

Dirthamen insisted on laying on his back between them and fussing until either Jylan or Samar consented to rub his belly. The hound was not concerned with the looming presence of death.

 They arrived in Amaranthine City nearly three hours after leaving the keep. Jylan had walked for a portion of it, as had Dirthamen and Samar, because the cart had not moved much faster than a brisk pace. Because of this brief exercise, none of them were sore from the hours sitting on the jostling, rumbling cart. The driver muttered harshly for them to remain in the back because he knew where Garevel had made their arrangements for the night, and he drove them considerably far into the city until the cart could go no further, and he barked at them with rough directions to find the inn themselves: only two buildings down.

Master Arainai had vanished once they were through the city gates. This offered little comfort to Samar, who was susceptible to paranoia and fear, and did not resolve the matter for Jylan. He remembered the fact that Master Arainai had thrice broken into the impenetrable Redcliffe Castle to assassinate the Crow cell responsible for Amaranthine’s war in the hinterlands. A crowded city would be of no consequence to him after the deathly silence of the castle. Again, Jylan did not share this information with his brother.

The innkeeper was a dwarven woman who took a letter from Garevel and held his seal to the light, ensuring it could not be a fake by the glimmer of gold and powdered lapis lazuli in the wax. She sent two men to bring in the trunks and bolt of cloth which Samar had stood beside while waiting outside, and then gave them a room. As the letter included both room _and_ board, they were not required to pay for anything except alcohol, and it was not necessary to eat from the gifts of food.

“Save that stuff for the ship.” His brother cautioned when Jylan suggested eating the loaf of bread before it could turn stale. “Trust me, it’s only a few days to Gwaren but even a bite of something _not_ pickled will be welcome. Stale bread is still _bread_.” That was not reassuring.

The beer had a more bitter flavour here than at the Vigil and Jylan found it preferable to Quartermaster Felsi’s brew. Samar went an unpleasant colour at the notion of more wine after last night, and opted for the same beer and a portion of water to go with their meal of fish and egg pie. It was a copper for both of them to drink.

“You _really_ ,” Master Arainai set his plate and pint down at their table and Samar swore very loudly for having been snuck up on from behind like that. “Should not haul that box about with you at all times.” Jylan had not been watching for him and froze with an intense discomfort in the back of his throat where part of his pie crust was now lodged. Death by choking had not been his expectation. “It tells people that it is too valuable for you to leave unguarded, and to take note of it.”

“What-” Samar dropped his voice, his head, and his shoulders nearly to the table, “- _the fuck are you doing here?”_

Master Arainai frowned very expressively at him.

“You had a third chair, I thought you were waiting for me.” A brief mania enraptured Jylan’s brother, causing his hands to flail at nothing over the meals between them.

“ _Who the fuck are you-!?”_ His brother hissed, and Jylan finally permitted himself to cough very hard and open his lungs again. Master Arainai held a hand to his own chest, aghast at Samar.

“I am _wounded_ , ser. Is our card game so swiftly forgotten?”

“ _No_ ,” Samar breathed back, “I mean who are you to come and follow us around the city like this? What the fuck does Surana want? My brother’s taken everything he’s entitled to and not a copper more, so the Arl can take it up with his seneschal if he doesn’t like something!”

“Rest assured, if anyone thought you or your brother were stealing anything from Amaranthine it would be Captain Renth sitting here, not I.”

“ _That doesn’t help_. _”_

“I suppose not, she is quite dashing with or without her armour and boasts a modest, friendly temper. Now, if you will excuse me, this is one of the few reasonably decent fish meals in the country and I should like to enjoy it hot.” Jylan looked at his brother and Samar was staring back at him, both hands gesturing to the third, now happily eating, elf at their table.

Jylan did not know what would be a reasonable comment to make at this point, and opted to lift his beer and drink from that instead. Samar followed his lead and did the same, drinking considerably faster.

“Did I forget to mention the three drops of _Aria Vandal_ I poured into those pints?” Master Arainai’s muffled voice spoke from over a steaming forkful of his pie. “Sleep well, gentle lords.”

Samar’s dark face went pale and then very flush, and a mouthful of beer was splashed into his food.

“Aria Vandal is not poisonous,” Jylan stated promptly, having stopped drinking as well with his pint still at his mouth when recalling the name. “The oil reduces inflammation in the-”

“ _You asshole,_ ” Samar growled in a black and threatening voice at Arainai, whose mouth was puckered in delight around his food. “Go somewhere else! Anywhere else!”

“You are much too tense, my friend.”

“ _Fuck you_.”

“Is that a suggestion?” Samar choked and moved to stand.

“I implore you not to resort to violence.” Jylan made it to his feet first, the Cherrywood box which had been in his lap now between both hands, and extended out to Master Arainai. It held the lyrium, the money from the Wardens, from Garevel, from Connor, the amber stone from Warden Lavellan, as well as the letters of recommendation and the writ of passage intended to carry Jylan from Amaranthine to Gwaren. There was still seven months of pay incoming to Gwaren, unless those transfers were cancelled by the Arl or other agents of his will, but even so there was food and a box of potions and the bolt of fabric, plus all of the supplies from the workshop.

“If you will leave my brother and I in peace then I will not deny you the only prize worth taking from us.” He told the assassin, because it was not unreasonable that Arainai would be persuaded to take the wealth and depart without further issue. “It is not necessary to bait him into unwise action as I have been similarly manipulated over time.” It was not fair- “-need not have the satisfaction.”

The sight of the box alone caused a change in Arainai’s face which stripped the amusement from his eyes. Jylan did not hear the mistake in his words until the blond elf gave a small startle and looked at him with a fresh sense of wonder.

“That was quite the slip,” Arainai commented. Jylan did not understand.

“ _Who?_ ” Samar asked, echoing the confusion.

“Archmage Surana,” Jylan repeated, still holding the lock-box in both hands. Surana need not have the satisfaction of knowing Jylan’s brother had for died pulling a knife on Arainai.

“That’s not what you said,” Arainai insisted, looking at Samar. “Is that what he said?”

“That’s not what he said.”

“What did I say?” Perhaps he had said Arl, not Archmage.

“Irving?” Samar said for him, with a confused look at Arainai, who met it with dark fingers touching his lips thoughtfully. “He said Irving?”

“First _Enchanter_ Irving, no doubt.” Arainai agreed. Jylan was still standing and holding the box out when Arainai waved a hand at him to sit. Slowly, he did so. “It is rare to hear one of the Tranquil mis-speak, and a flub of that magnitude is concerning. I- I apologize, to you both. Perhaps you will permit me to explain myself?”

“That’s what I’ve been asking you to do _all day_ ,” Samar complained, and Arainai patted the air to calm him.

“I know, yes, and I’ve been very coy about not answering you.” He lifted his hand a little higher and flagged the attention of the innkeeper. The room’s constant chatter and activity had muffled nearly all of their conversation, and she had to come quite close to hear what Master Arainai wanted. “More drinks for the table, madame, and the first round my companions ordered: shift it all to my tab. One purse is easier to count than three.”

The order was taken and delivered, and Master Arainai changed his tone enough to keep Samar muzzled by his drink. Dirthamen, who had curled up at Jylan’s feet for the duration of the meal after devouring a bowl of kitchen offal, now sat up with a yawn and placed his muzzle in Jylan’s lap, huffing with sleepy eyes for pets and strokes between his ears. The hound remained entirely neutral to Arainai’s presence.

“Very simply, I have business in Gwaren,” the Assassin told them. The intensity of Samar’s glare faded. “Business which may see me leave the city within a few days of arrival, more likely a few weeks, but ultimately no further than the dying days of winter: I have a very crucial rendezvous on the first day of Spring deep in the Kocari Wilds, and I will not miss it.”

“What, being a rabbit’s not good enough? You wanna go getting yourself turned into a toad next?” Arainai wrinkled his nose disdainfully at Samar’s words. “No one goes into the wilds and comes back.”

“ _Language_ , Master Ashera, _please:_ there are humans about.” Arainai scolded him gently and then brought his voice back to the light, conversational lilt from before. “And _Wardens_ come back from all sorts of ridiculous places. I may not be one of them, but I know more or less how it’s done. Does this satisfy you? I am not here to rob or do unsightly things to you; I mean neither of you any harm whatsoever. But I _do_ know some of what you are taking with you and as we are travelling in the same direction and aboard the same ship, it would be good to make sure you arrive at home unscathed and unmolested. Additionally, while I know you, Compounder, often dealt with significant sums of coin on behalf of your guild and Vigil’s Keep, I do not think I would be remiss in assuming you have never had quite so much of it _yourself_ to risk losing or misusing?”

“Your assumptions are accurate.”

“Then from one who is used to it to one who is not, let me say I think we will find plenty of important topics to discuss on the voyage south.” Samar grew dark and grumbling again at this.

“It’s his money to spend, not yours.”

“If I have my numbers right, Master Ashera, he has more money than most people know what to do with, but not nearly enough to last the rest of this year if spent frivolously.” Samar threw both hands out at Jylan.

 _“What_ about him is frivolous?” Arainai patted the air again and Jylan assumed that this habit would only breed contempt from his brother in short order if continued.

“What is the _largest_ sum of coin you have ever held in your hand _and_ known was yours, Samar?”

“We’re not on a first-name basis.”

“Answer the question, maybe?”

Samar took a long, hard breath and held it deep, then exhaled and stabbed at the rest of his dinner with his fork. He shovelled a few bites into his mouth and chewed on it for more time, and eventually swallowed so he could speak.

“Two sovereigns,” was his answer, but more followed. “It was my cut after the _worst_ contract of my life. We ran a shipment of Nevarran silks and Fereldan timber from Wycome to Seheron. _Seheron_ , of all fucking places. Captain _and_ First Mate died in separate attacks on our ship from slavers, actual _slavers._ We were stopped by a Qunari Dreadnaught that nearly blew us to smithereens before it saw us firing back on a Tevinter vessel that had been following us for two days before then. I got back to Gwaren with two gold pieces and ten years off my life. Never again.” Master Arainai was nodding with steady interest as Samar told his story, and then posed a question as Samar resumed wolfing down his meal:

“And how long did those two gold pieces last?”

“The first one? Maybe three months.” That was not encouraging. “But the second I used to get Rian the teacher and time to learn his letters and numbers. He got a decent job from that, and got Jenna her job in turn, so that’s two members of my family taken care of by one piece of gold. I can’t complain, but: _never again._ ”

“If used wisely, serrah, your brother’s money will make a substantial difference for your family for years to come. If spirited away on luxuries and gifts and _simple niceties_ , it will be all used up by this time next year and every one of you will be back where they started. I do not claim to know your family or your circumstances, but I do know that people who have never had anything can lose themselves in the brief revelry of feeling that they can have _everything_.”

It seemed an appropriate time to speak.

“I am open to suggestions and advice, Master Arainai.”

“Excellent! But not tonight.” Arainai chirped, finishing the last mouthfuls of his beer and then scooping the final lumps of his meal up into his mouth. “You two are tired, and have been through a great deal. I will accompany you to your ship’s mooring place in the morning, yes? And Compounder: _leave that box in your room_. It will be safe, but you absolutely must stop clutching it like it will come to life and squirm away from you.”

“I am not clutching it,” he stated, a simple matter as the box was in his lap, at the edge of Dirthamen’s snout. Jylan had one hand placed on the lid, but was not holding the box to his body.

“Put it on the table or put it on the floor,” Arainai insisted. “It must come out of your lap: the hound is growing jealous. If anyone should come near it, they will be dead before your brother or I establish who threw the first blade.”

“I implore you not to resort to violence,” Jylan repeated himself from earlier. Master Arainai smiled in an untrustworthy manner. Samar grumbled, and drank the last of Jylan’s beer.

Their beds for the night were modest. Very similar to the bed Jylan had been given in Vigil’s Keep. The major difference was the significant dip in the crushed hay and wool from many bodies over many years, and this was partially responsible for his poor night’s rest. The other reason was Dirthamen. The hound had eyed the beds with noteworthy attention while Jylan and his brother prepared to retire for the night, drawing attention but no comment from them. After the candle was doused and Jylan had acquired a semi-comfortable position in the bed, he was abruptly accosted by the hound’s willful attention.

He would have inquired what Dirthamen was doing but was not so confused as to forget that the dog was a dog, and therefore incapable of speech. Instead he waited in the dark until the great mass of hard muscle and bristly fur settled itself behind his legs, head flung down on the dip of his waist where he was laying on his side. The hound promptly fell asleep, but Jylan did not. He was not comfortable, and in fact made note of tension points along his back and shoulders where he was experiencing outright discomfort. When he eventually rolled onto his back to ease the arrangement, Dirthamen huffed at him, and promptly flopped over his legs and stomach.

It would have been more appropriate to have left the hound in Vigil’s Keep, with Rowan.

 He slept poorly, and woke up in the black silence of pre-dawn. It took several moments before he remembered why he was sore, why his back was twisted in a bed that did not feel right, and why he could not remember his requisitions for the day. He had been relieved of his duties and his living and the adjustment would take time.

He remained in bed until the sky began to lighten. Twenty-one push-ups, thirty sit-ups. He dressed himself in the same trousers and boots and tunic and cloak as yesterday, and did not pick up the Cherrywood box where it had spent the night under his bed. He did not wake his brother. He woke the dog and took Dirthamen out to the street so the animal could relieve himself and sniff the city with open curiosity. Dirthamen had been kennelled in Denerim before being taken to Vigil’s Keep, but the royal district where House Guerrin had rested was incomparable with the dock district of Amaranthine. The hound was unwilling to return to the inn, but obeyed his commands.

That morning the innkeeper fed them hot gruel and hot black tea. Samar insisted that the copper fee for honey or jam accompaniment for the food was too expensive, and Jylan only suggested the jars of preserves from Mistress Stockard to remind his brother of their existence. His brother misconstrued this as Jylan having a noteworthy preference in the matter, and gently asked him not to indulge so quickly.

“I _know_ it’s gonna be rough going from how your Guild and the Vigil could feed you to what’s in the Alienage, and it’s not all _that bad_ either, but just- y’know, pace yourself.”

“I did not mean it as a suggestion of need, merely a reminder. We did not have jam in the guild, at least not during my term of residence.”

“Well, good. I guess. Speaking of your guild, is there anyone you wanna go and make final goodbyes to before we leave Amaranthine?”

“No.”

Master Arainai did not reappear at breakfast, and they left for the waterfront without him. Amaranthine City was on the border between the Waking Sea and the Amaranthine Ocean. As Jylan had only ever seen the water in the form of maps, he did not know where the absolute distinction between sea and ocean was formally cast, or on which side of the line the city rested.

But he did know that there was an immediate and intimate sense of familiarity with the briny smell of the water when they walked down through the city’s steep decline to the harbour. The Guildsmen’s hall was within this district, but they went straight past it to the green waters and barnacle-crusted posts and breakers of the seaside. Amaranthine had recovered from the hurricane in nearly all faculties: there were signs of repair on warehouses and the waterfront docks, not devastation or damage. Jylan did not know the city well enough to gauge changes elsewhere.

“So you… you lived in this city for years and almost never went out in it?”

“Leaving the hall was not required for many weeks at a time. Provisions were delivered, and several of those who left for errands or deliveries vanished for unknown but likely unpleasant reasons. I do not know if the guild remains as strict in its policies of free travel.”

 Samar was displeased but would not elaborate on why. He cheered up considerably when he led Jylan down through the forest of masts and furled sails and reached a particular vessel of great interest.

The ship was moored alongside many others of similar grand size. Instead of a plank of wood for a gangway, there was a stepladder fastened to the ship with ropes. The hull was cut in various places at Jylan’s eye-level on the dock: little squares like shuttered windows, one of which was open and revealed the polished cross-piece of a large and menacing harpoon. He could not see up onto the deck, but there was little talk and less movement, the ship seemed quiet in the early morning light.

“The _Lady Freeborn_ ,” his brother sighed in admiration, then cupped his mouth and sent up a loud, musical chant of several words Jylan failed to understand or properly interpret. It was likely not King’s Trade. The cry caused the active echo of pounding feet, and four sailors flung themselves over the ship’s rail, laughing and talking over one another with whistles and taunts.

Jylan could not follow the chatter. Three of the sailors were elven, one was human. The human was one of two women, her hair sun-bleached and chopped short, cheeks blushed harshly red by the Fereldan cold. She seemed very young. The elves were darker, and shoved each other with jostling hands.

Samar said something very loudly, but was smiling, and his voice thundered with introduction and excitement, one hand clapping Jylan on the shoulder. He had pulled the hood of his cloak up over his face and could not look at Samar properly to ask what was happening. The sailors on the ship cooed and made interested sounds, repeating themselves to each other.

“Which language are you using?” It was an irrelevant question as regardless of the answer, he could not speak nor understand it.

“Rivaini,” Samar elbowed him in the arm. It did not hurt. It was meant as a sign of affection. “Makes sense that the Circle took that away from you too.” Jylan did not comment on this.

Samar spoke again and made a large gesture with his arm to scatter the sailors, who went off chirping and humming over the deck. Samar mounted the steps of the ladder, and looked back with a swing of his hand to tell Jylan to follow.

Jylan was skeptical of Dirthamen’s ability to climb the steps, but after reaching the deck himself, the hound made only one rough attempt before simply running and leaping the distance. The dog’s athletics delighted the sailors.

“ _Ashera!_ ” The Captain was a human man with a marcher accent, black hair in waves and curls, a large, clean shaven jaw, and many scars on his hands. He wore a heavy black Captain’s coat and greeted Samar in a way which suggested anger or frustration, but Samar continued in his good mood and brought Jylan closer to him. The Captain, at least, spoke Trade.

“Back already, are you? Afraid we’d sail off and leave you with the _Hero of Ferelden_?”

“Sailor’s place is with his crew, Ser.”

“Don’t give me that glibness, who’s the hooded mongrel?” This was a reference to Jylan. He focused his eyes on the brass buttons of that black coat.

“My brother, Ser.”

“ _Bullshit_.” The Captain answered and then spat. The sailors who had greeted Samar from the rail laughed and were watching: some openly, others less so. “I bought it the first time, a brother in the Arl’s service. You look fed and fine enough, but drop the tall-tales before you fall from one.”

Samar was very quiet and Jylan realized he was being looked at, gestured to, and shifted his focus to his brother before he felt tension on the back of his hood. Samar did not pull it down but was clearly requesting its removal. Uncertain what this would accomplish, Jylan did as requested.

He returned his gaze to the Captain’s chest so as not to offer offense to his brother’s employer. Samar put his hands around Jylan’s shoulders and leaned next to him until their heads touched, looking at his Captain, and it seemed reasonable to assume that Samar was smiling broadly.

The man was quiet but one sailor gasped and another slapped his leg and started laughing. Something more was said in Rivaini before the Captain suddenly burst out in a much louder laugh than the crew around him on the deck.

“Well to _damnnation_ with what I think I know of elves!” The captain yelled, and his crew laughed too. There were now more of them crawling down the rigging where they had been quietly working, coming up from the lower decks to observe what was happening. “How bored did the Maker have to be to put the same face on two men? Fine, a brother in Amaranthine, _now_ I believe you. Now what’s he doing on my ship?”

Samar winced, ended his sideways embrace of Jylan, and became sheepish, palms together.

“Passage to Gwaren?”

The Captain spat at the deck.

“Gold, or get him off my ship. Have we not lost enough money on this cursed contract!”

“I thought you might say that, Ser.” Samar ceased to be timid, and spoke more firmly. “Shall we go to your quarters? My brother didn’t come unprepared or empty-handed.”

The Captain of this ship seemed an angry and uncompromising person, who was in fact neither very angry nor that unwilling to reason. He took them across the deck and down through a set of doors, which led immediately to a room with windows looking out the back of the ship, a small cot built into the back wall, a table bolted to the floor with maps and an open bottle of wine, and-

“At last! My companions arrive well-rested and in good spirits.” –and Master Arainai, reclining comfortably in one of the two benches bolted to the floor just like the table he was seated at. “Finally, good Captain Hevelt and I can speak of business, not just possibility.”

Samar bristled at his presence. Jylan did not comment or inquire as to why: Arainai had told them last night he intended to reach Gwaren aboard the same ship.

“I expect this kind of swill from plenty of people, Ashera, but not _you_.” Captain Hevelt grumbled at Samar, but then turned and held out a hand taking them to take the seats across from where Arainai was now sitting up properly, hands folded in front of him and head turned up with glowing attention. “Do I start with how your brother’s paying for this passage to Gwaren, or with asking you why in Andraste’s Name I’ve had a Crow in my quarters all morning?”

“I’m not a Crow, Ser, and I am here because you invited me in!” Arainai protested, “Most politely, and with good wine to share- although not as good as what the younger Master Ashera has in that satchel of his.”

Captain Hevelt kept his gaze on Samar.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know why there’s a not-Crow in your cabin, Captain,” Samar answered quickly. “He told us he needs to get to Gwaren on business for the Arl of Amaranthine, but you told me two days ago we won’t be ready to sail until next week, so I don’t know. For my end, my brother was dismissed from Vigil’s Keep for getting caught up in their politics and I need to take him home with me. He has a writ of passage from the Seneschal to get him there.”

“Writ’s just gold in paper form,” Hevelt uttered. “I’ll accept it if the seal is good.”

“Jeevan?” He opened the satchel at his side and reached inside, withdrawing the fine card with the writ and Garevel’s stamp on it. The Captain took the card and examined it by the light of his windows, then returned it to him. Jylan kept his eyes on the man’s chest, straying no higher than his shoulder.

“When we’re ready to leave: I’ll take it then, not before. As my Boatswain says, it’ll be at least four more days before we’re finished minor repairs and loading what scanty cargo we can get a-hold of for shipping south. Blasted hurricane ruined nearly everything.”

“There is also a bottle of wine with the Seneschal’s kind regards, Captain,” Samar added.

“I’ll take both.” Jylan withdrew the wine from the satchel, and gave it to him. There was an extended pause in the conversation. “Is there… something wrong with him? I thought it just nerves, but...” Jylan did not understand the reference. It was Samar who attempted to answer.

“He’s, um…” His brother replaced the hand on his shoulder, rubbing along the seam of the cloak. “He’s tranquil, Captain. Probably gonna be the quietest passenger we’ve ever carried, but a little odd, I’ll grant you. You get used to it.”

The Captain’s boots creaked and he hummed softly to himself. The loudest sound in the room was Dirthamen’s idle panting when the hound moved around under the table, where he had comfortably placed himself after sensing no danger in the room.

“Fine,” the Captain shifted away from him, focusing on Master Arainai. “Now where does that leave you and the Arl’s business? At least two other ships will leave before ours.”

“That is very true,” Master Arainai purred from his seat. “But you are going where I would like to go, with the people I would like to go with. _Calm yourself_ , Master Ashera, you remain misinformed: my business has nothing to do with the Arl and I simply prefer to travel in familiar company. A few days idling in the city is all well and good to me, I have a long time to be where I would like to go. What is of interest to yourself, Captain, is a request I have of your ship’s services.”

“What kind of request?” The Captain asked.

“A brief, but important, delay of our passage in the Fereldan Capital. And I do mean _brief_ : only a night at most, and should we arrive early enough in the day then I may be able to wrap everything up before nightfall.” That did not make sense but Hevelt was in a more appropriate position to say as much.

“It’s four days waiting for the _Lady Freeborn_ just to leave Amaranthine,” he said, “You could get to Denerim on a good horse in that time, or less if you’ve the mettle to move faster.”

“True, but it would be quite the feat for my horse and I to leap the distance from the Denerim docks to the _Lady Freeborn_ ’s deck if she is at sea, no? My dear, respectable Captain, I am not a fool who asks for something without knowing the value of it.”

“Do you have _any_ idea how much a detour like that will cost me when I’ve no goods for Denerim and enough losses from that damned storm?” Hevelt snarled at the other elf, and Jylan looked to his brother where Samar was staring incredulously at the Antivan. “If my crew expect their pay, then it’ll be coming from your pocket before I even _think_ of something like that!”

Arainai showed him a hand. He was leaning on the table with one elbow, his face held on his curled fist.

“My dear Captain, I _do_ know.” Arainai flicked his wrist hard. It looked like magic, but it was likely a sewn compartment in his vambrace or sleeve. A white card appeared between his nimble fingers, and was held out for the captain who snatched it up. The card was brushed with gold.

“This…”

“My business is not the Arl’s.” Arainai repeated, his voice firm, but solemn. “I am not well known in Ferelden and that has been my own doing and preference, truly, but I am well known to _him_. I was there when Urthemiel breathed its last polluting breath over the country and I helped drag the Hero of Ferelden’s limp body from the smouldering aftermath. I was even the one to slap him and make sure he remembered how to breathe before the Blight could claim him as one last victim. I made a request of him, heart-to-heart, Captain, and this is his answer. Show it to any Dwarven Guild house, show it to the Seneschal of Gwaren, to any of the Arls, His Majesty’s court, or simply to your own company’s clerks and associates, and your worries will vanish. All I am asking for is one day in Denerim, and a pledge to see the younger Master Ashera and myself whole and well when we disembark in Gwaren.”

“Done.” Hevelt stated. “The repairs, the cargo, even the docking fee in Denerim: this could cover all of it. I’ll not question the Arl of Amaranthine or the Hero of Ferelden. My cabin is yours if you desire it for the voyage, Master Arainai.”

The assassin only gave a gentle, friendly laugh, and declined.

The next four days passed very slowly. Samar was required to tend to the ship and the crew, he had a position of substantial responsibility overseeing cargo, the deck, the lines, the final repairs, and the state and sea-worthiness of the vessel. Jylan knew nothing of sea-faring or ship building, his presence would only have proven burdensome and uncomfortable. He endeavoured to remain at the inn. He did not feel boredom, he only knew that it was preferable to keep his hands busy rather than simply stare for hour after hour at the walls of the small room.

Master Arainai drifted between periods of close attention and vanishing into the city for whatever purpose he desired. Jylan felt no compulsion to ask or wonder where he went. He only knew that the assassin made a point of returning every few hours to check on him. He did not know why.

On the second day, he appeared at breakfast after Samar had left for the docks, and made a strange statement.

“I would see what you know of self-defense.”

He knew nothing. He was tranquil. Tranquil were not permitted to resist the actions of others.

“Petty Circle nonsense, and you are not in the Circle any longer.” Master Arainai dismissed his statement. “The Arl is a mage and I taught him how to fight properly, perhaps without my finesse or captivating good looks, but proper, and usually unexpected.”

“The Arl is a battlemage, it is expected that he should know how to mediate encounters with various weapon and attack styles.”

“And you are not a battlemage, but you’re a grown man going to live in a new city with unfamiliar people, and you need to know what to do should that city turn on you.”

“If it will provide you with a sense of emotional fulfillment or utility, then I will consent to your suggestion. However, I understand that this offer is likely motivated solely by your own boredom.”

“Not _solely_ ,” Arainai laughed, “but a little bit of boredom, yes. Come with me.”

He did not know how to fight.

He did not know how to lunge, grapple, block, or swipe. He did not know the different grips for a short dagger, or what they were intended to provide the wielder. He did not know how to read the fine details of the weapon, or how to anticipate the movements of an aggressive foe.

If he was not obligated to remain in such volatile circumstances, then his primary focus was to escape the encounter. Master Arainai noticed this and then asked him directly if it was so. Once confirmed, the staggered movements and odd flecks of violence changed into a simple, controlled exercise: evade.

“Your stride is too short.” Arainai corrected him in the yard just beside the inn’s cramped stable. “You’re not wearing those hobbling robes, Compounder, you’ve got to spread your feet a little. Don’t take three steps where one will suffice, move _away_.”

The other elf stood next to him, facing the same way as him, and slid one foot back, bidding Jylan copy him.

“Do exactly as I do.” Back, back, left strife, back, right, back: consistently back. When they ran out of space, Arainai reset them and made him cross the yard again in a different pattern. After the seventh run, it abruptly became easier and less likely for Jylan to trip.

“See! _Big_ steps, feet off the ground.” The other elf praised. “The ground is never even and no one cares how quiet you are when you’re in a fight like this: lift your foot and push back, land and push, _land_ and-” push, and continue. Arainai said it was like a dance. Jylan did not know how to dance either.

“Promise me that if you are ever in a fight you will take that hood off.”

“The faces of the Tranquil are often considered unnerving to-”

“ _Good!_ Should anyone accost you, Compounder, you should do whatever you can to scare the _shit_ out of them.” Removing the hood also allowed him greater field of vision and an easier time watching where he was going when backing up.

A key component of combat, he was told the next day with sore legs, was aggression. Tranquil did not feel aggression, therefore it seemed a fruitless act of insanity to insist upon his instruction in the basics of engaged combat.

“Tranquil aren’t aggressive, no,” Arainai conceded after only twenty minutes of talk and awkward attempts to make Jylan follow his movements. He was not too fast, merely investing in something Jylan could not do. “But you know what you are? Stubborn. Absolutely, unapologetically stubborn. You don’t have to get _angry_ to stab someone, or to avoid being stabbed, you just have to be absolutely committed to either of those thoughts. Either I _am_ going to stab this person who is trying to harm me, or I will _not_ be stabbed by this person. Let us focus on the latter. Here are your vambraces from Velanna, let me show you how to lace them properly. Over your shirt sleeve… excellent.”

There were basic positions, rest and start poses for arms and legs. Most felt forced, others were more natural. Jylan was tall, but he was elven, Master Arainai did not want him to accept forceful hits to his limbs because the bones could break or the blows unbalance him.

“I’m not going to show you how to stand there and take a beating, you need to _move back_ and use your arms to make sure I miss every time. If your body is no longer where I am throwing a punch, I cannot hit you. If my blade is longer than your stride, then you need to make sure you can get the tip to go the wrong way and _always keep moving_. When you sense a chance to run, you _run_.”

It was not easy. It was not enjoyable. The sensation of his heightened heartbeat and the sweat collecting under his clothes showed hard work, but it was fruitless as he could not fight. He did not know how to fight.

Dirthamen knew how to fight.

“Do you know his commands?” He knew how to command the dog to perform many tasks. This was not what Master Arainai meant. “I mean, his battle commands. Compounder, this is a _war hound_ , what did you think the Kennelmaster did with him every day?” He had not considered it pertinent to ask.

“Hound!” Arainai called abruptly, the cold sunlight carrying his voice to where Dirthamen, sleeping head down on his paws, sent both ears shock-straight and snapped his eyes open. The dog’s entire body moved in one instant, and he was standing wide awake and alert. Jylan had not seen the animal rouse itself so quickly before. “Hound _come!_ ”

Dirthamen bolted from standing to sprinting, and kicked up loose mud and gravel in an effort to stop dead in front of- Jylan. Master Arainai laughed warmly at the display.

“He’s bonded to you,” the assassin explained. “His commands will always make him act in your favour unless you explicitly say otherwise. He’s a Mabari: one of the few animals that will learn other peoples’ names along with his own.” Jylan considered this information.

“He knows that Samar is Samar, by name?”

“And that I am Zevran, or Arainai, whichever he has heard you refer me to as most often. And he _will_ know Captain Hevelt or whomever you interact with most on board the ship. Have you never seen the Wardens introduce their Mabari to people? They don’t remember _everyone_ , but they learn the ones they’re familiar with.”

Jylan had no immediate reason to doubt Arainai’s claims, but the assassin insisted on a test to confirm it for him. He made piles from items around the yard, and had Jylan walk the dog to them and introduce them as _bucket_ , _straw_ , and _Arainai_ , who was simply standing to the left of the two piles. The commands were:

“Hound, ready.” Dirthamen’s wagging tail and ecstatic nature vanished. Ears up, shoulders down, eyes alert and watching. “Straw, maul.”

The hound charged and with a feral growl slammed his large paws into the hay and crate set up, shattering the wooden box and tearing his fangs through the corded bundle of straw until the pile was completely demolished. The task complete, Dirthamen immediately ran back to Jylan, who was instructed to pet the animal on the head.

“Hound, ready.” He repeated, and Dirthamen did exactly that. “Bucket, bite.”

Another bounding run, and Jylan considered the possibility that Dirthamen would reach the bucket and stop because there was no sound reason for him to bite the bucket resting atop another crate. Contrary to that opinion, Dirthamen lunged, locked his large jaws around the side of the bucket, and his blunt teeth splintered the wooden slats, collapsing the bucket and causing the metal hoop around it to snap and bounce off. As soon as his jaws closed completely, the hound released and took two steps back, eyeing its prey as if the bucket may bite back, and then turned and ran back to him for another head-pat and praise.

“If you say the command correctly, I will be just fine,” Master Arainai called from across the yard. “Please, whatever you do: do not say _maul_.”

“Would he attack indiscriminately if I did so, without any provocation from you?”

“Did the bucket provoke you?” Arainai laughed. “He is a war hound, it is not his job to question his master. He trusts you to tell him when something is a danger, regardless of the reality.” This was not a level of trust Jylan was capable of handling properly, the hound’s bond with him had been a detrimental mistake.

“Hound, ready.” He gave the command. “Arainai, frighten.”

The maul command was powerful and thorough, the bite was short and direct, frighten…

Dirthamen threw his head wildly before running, snarling and snapping at the air with wild growls ripping from his chest. He charged Arainai and the elf held both his position and his expression, but it became strained when Dirthamen skidded to a halt with long nails extended, throwing his head back and snapping at the air, barks and fierce snarls accompanied by enraged froth flying through the air. The hound was very close to him, but did not touch him, and when Arainai did not move the hound ran behind him in its crazed manner, performing the same terrible dance until the assassin gave up a quick foot of space and broke into nervous laughter.

“Alright- very good-” he laughed, and it did not sound the same as the laugh before. “If he gets too worked up, he may bite me. I do hate it when they start running in circles.”

“Hound, heel.” The barking stopped. The snapping stopped. Dirthamen did not calm as quickly as he had before, but he went quiet and stopped moving, stood there firm and focused with breaths panting over his exposed teeth. “Dirthamen, to me.”

The hound backed away from Arainai by a few steps, then finally broke focus from him and trotted back to Jylan, who knelt this time to greet the animal. He rubbed behind the dog’s tall ears as they swivelled to hear when Arainai crunched across the ground to meet them. He scratched Dirthamen’s shoulders and the hound was happy to let his long pink tongue loll out of his mouth with unpleasant-smelling breaths. Arainai observed this with approval, and then kicked the ground.

“Stand a moment, and permit me to do something stupid.” Jylan did not understand, but there remained the unlikely possibility that Arainai would react negatively if ignored. He stood. Arainai showed both palms for a moment and took a step back, then spoke.

“Hound!” He called, and Dirthamen’s disposition went tense and rigid again. “Jylan, _frighten_.”

Jylan could see the recognition. Dirthamen’s dark eyes opened until he could see the whites around them, and the hound put his ears down flat to his skull and swung his hind legs around with weight pinned on his front paw. He faced Arainai from a deep crouch, back legs poised wide to help keep balance and to block Jylan from the other elf. A deep, menacing growl rumbled hard and loud from the dog’s body, and did not stop as Zevran kept his hands up and took two more slow and careful steps away.

“Mabari will _never_ turn on their masters,” he explained in a gentle voice. “It’s important to know, and it’s something no trainer can override. They have no sense of humour and during the Blight I nearly lost the back of my calf for jokingly telling one old friend to bite his master. I am deeply skeptical of you encountering anyone foolish enough to tangle with a mabari, let alone someone that stupid who also knows how they are trained, but if you are in a dangerous situation and Dirthamen is already attuned to you: that is, you have told him to ready and not made it clear that the danger is passed, then he will listen to no one else. Remember this, and be careful with it. If you ally is calling for the dog’s help, he will not do anything until he hears you say it first.”

“I will remember it.” Unlike the rudimentary set of instructions for engaging in ill-advised combat, this information was functionally useful.

Jylan took a knee again, and touched Dirthamen’s shoulder. The hound growled louder still, but then stopped.

“Dirthamen, to me.” The hound rose slowly from its menacing pose, and then rudely huffed at Arainai and turned to Jylan again. His jubilant nature was dimmed by this final lesson, and he thumped his head into Jylan’s shoulder in a demand for comfort. Although it was not satisfactory, he stroked the dog’s neck.

The other commands Arainai taught him, without demonstration, were _protect_ , _alert_ , _hunt_ , _find_ , _flank_ , and _kill_.

Samar did not trust Master Arainai’s intentions any more now than he had several days ago on the ox cart. Jylan was resolved to the idea that Master Arainai intended harm to someone, but not them. Dirthamen liked Master Arainai a little less for that moment of upset during training, but did not maintain any sense of alarm around him.

Jylan did not consent to wear the vambraces when they boarded the ship, a week after Jylan’s dismissal from Vigil’s Keep. The Innkeeper sent the same two human servants who had carried the trunks the first time to carry them down to the ship this time, and Jylan carried the rest himself: the bolt of fabric, the Cherrywood lock box, a canvas sack for a single fresh change of clothes with Valora’s potions and necessary personal grooming items, also with the satchel of care items for Dirthamen.

Samar offered the hand that pulled Jylan over the side of the ship, to the deck. He was settled below decks, in a nook along the starboard side of the ship where a canvas hammock was routinely hung for such passengers as himself. Master Arainai was in the nook one spot down from his, and travelled only with the gear on his body and a modest saddlebag. Samar would sleep elsewhere, as this was his ship. Jylan’s trunks were under the hammock and served as a step to help him into it. There was a small broken glowstone lamp hanging from a cord over the hammock, which did not work.

Dirthamen could not get into the hammock to sleep on him, however, ship holds were not intended to be warm. He was uncertain whether this arrangement would prove more or less agreeable than the very warm but very uncomfortable inn bed.

He felt the change when the ship cast off its lines and began to move. It was a moment of minor, but noticeable, vertigo. Everything was moving but not. It felt like if he should drop something, it would land an inch from where he’d released it; the vessel was moving but the air was not. He felt the ship keel very gently to the right, then settle, then to the left.

Master Arainai fled the hold with a delighted chirp, to watch the city fade behind them.

Dirthamen keened softly from his spot laying on one of the trunks. The hound did not appreciate the sensation of the ship slowly easing its way through the harbour. When he touched the animal, Dirthamen grew calmer.

“We shall arrive in Denerim tomorrow,” he explained to the dog, though its understanding of speech was not nearly so comprehensive as to understand what he said. “Master Arainai has paid for a day in the city, and then it will be the voyage south to Gwaren. If the weather is fair, the Captain has said we shall arrive in four days. If it turns foul, it will take outside of a week.” But the Lady Freeborn was an ocean-going vessel, and Samar had already turned up his nose at the idea that a coastal squall would slow them by more than a full day. As his brother was a sailor and not a businessman like the Captain, Jylan chose to believe him instead.

Ultimately, it did not matter what he thought or believed of his situation. He was on the ship. He would either arrive in Gwaren or he would drown en-route. Timing made little difference. The finality offered a sense of stability, but not direction.

It was too dark to sew. On deck, he would be in the way. The hold was too small for Dirthamen to run, and there was nothing for the dog to attack or train tactics against. If he proved too burdensome and irritating to the crew, there was a slim, unlikely possibility that he would be removed from the ship in Denerim.

He climbed into the hammock, where the sense of vertigo calmed briefly before becoming more pronounced by the hull of the ship against his side. The smell of pitch and cedar wood was spicy, but not overwhelming. The pervasive odour of ocean brine was found on every breath, but this he found pleasant.

He made note of the pitch and keel of the vessel as it moved through the harbour. He counted the number of times it leaned starboard.

There was nothing else to do but wait.

 


	26. Interlude

 

If Soren hadn’t already been watching the signs, then he would have protested when Zevran told him he was leaving. Neither of them were that stupid: they’d both known what was coming before Zevran finally made his announcement, quietly, in the salon when it was just the two of them.

Moodiness, aggression, withdrawal, forced smiles; the disinterest in what was happening around them, the fact that Zevran kept biting his tongue, the way he’d been ruthless and ready to fight him over what was _none_ of his business. Soren commanded an army of exceptional people who all rallied under the same _colours_ , yes, but every Grey Warden lived their own extraordinary life. He knew when one of his Wardens was itching to get out of their mundane routine, and he saw the same foul temper and restlessness chewing through Zevran.

His only options were to resist him, causing a fight that would hurt them both and resolve nothing, or agree and make sure the parting happened on good terms. He chose the second one.

 _‘Meet me at the Arlathvhen’_ , Zevran had said when he’d finished explaining something Soren had already decided he _could not_ deny him. He’d said quite a bit, but that had been the end of it: _Meet me at the Arlathvhen_. He still intended to go, and he still wanted Soren to be there with him; to watch his back for him. Zevran needed someone he could trust to come with him deep into the Kocari Wilds where the Dalish were gathering under the ruined shadow of Ostagar, and the someone he chose was Soren.

They were going to be okay. Because Soren knew that they were _going_ to be okay, it was easier to meet Zevran’s serious gaze and hear him talk his way through what was bothering him. How he felt restless, how he felt irritable, how he knew he loved Soren very dearly but kept finding reasons and ways to conflict with him. So he needed to leave. He needed to go off and be with himself for a while.

He did not tell Soren where he was going, but he gave him a timeline: ‘ _Meet me at the Arlathvhen_.’

Soren would be there. And to help make sure Zevran managed the same feat, Soren gave him the two parting gifts that would serve him best. One was a gold embossed card of fine, stiff paper, promising the sum of Zevran’s choice delivered to the party also of his choice, from Amaranthine’s coffers. The other was a small metal box containing the twisted, almost warm body of a sending stone. The card and stone would give Zevran the two most important things Soren could offer: enough money to buy his way out of any trouble he may find himself in, and a method of contacting Soren directly if something unforeseen should happen. Everything else, Zevran could easily provide for himself.

 _‘Meet me at the Arlathvhen_.’

He would. But standing with his arms folded, leaning to the wall and looking out through the rain-speckled window to the storm dumping dark water over Vigil’s Keep, Ostagar in spring felt like a lifetime away.

He’d really left.

Dinah was with him. The hound had abandoned the warm fireside and come to sit beside him, leaning her shoulder and head against his leg, but otherwise respecting his quiet mood. He missed her sire, but Tagar would not have wanted to make the cold, tiring journey back to Ostagar for a third time.

“…Did you love him?”

Morrigan’s voice broke him from his own thoughts. He gave a little shake, looking around to find her standing not far from him, but watching him closely. Love him?

“Who- Zevran?” He asked.

 “I am not so naïve as to pretend I do not know that answer.” She spoke with a faint smile on her rouged lips, “No, not Zevran.”

“Then I don’t know who you mean.”

Her smile faltered, lips pressed thin before she folded her arms slowly. She let her hip rest at the back of the sofa she was standing next to. Uncertainty crossed her face, and the fact that she let him see it had him curious- but also warry.

“Perhaps that is because _I_ did not know _him_.” He did not like that statement, but waited to hear her out. The bracing breath she took showed how unsteady the topic made her. “Telaren.” Surprise made him blink and stare at her. “Eadric. Your second cohort. Did you love him?”

“Why are you asking me this?” And how did she know his-? _Zevran_.

“Because I have spent too many years enjoying willful ignorance of your life before I entered it, Soren.” Morrigan tightened her arms enough, again, for him to notice it. She wanted him to know she was uncomfortable. “Dismiss and huff away from me if you must, but I am asking now. Did you love him?”

“You must know that’s a very forward way to start.”

“Should I spend an hour or more buttering you up and pouring wine into your glass first?” It would not have _hurt_ for her to try that. “You would know I was angling for something and withdraw from me, so I shall simply ask what it is I want to know: did you love him?”

“You won’t even know if we were _friends_ first before jumping to this?” She curled her lips again but this time with a hint of irritation. Good. Be irritated.

“You were _someone’s_ lover before you were mine,” she huffed. “You said as much before we became entangled, and if it were only youthful boasting then you would not have known the things you did when we first met.”

Despite his better nature, Soren pulled the corner of his lips into his own mouth and held them. He let his brows pull up a little, and answered her open annoyance with his own blatant attempts not to smile.

“Are you jealous of a dead elf, my lady?” Morrigan did not share his amusement and her answer was clipped:

“I am not jealous of a relationship that ended when you became a Grey Warden and left the Circle, Soren. What I want is to know if you found the dead body of someone you dearly loved in that tower when you carved a burning path through it.” Hmm- he didn’t… like how she said that. “Did you love him?”

“How should I know?” He finally answered. “The Circle was hardly the place, and during a Blight was not the time.”

“Were you lovers?” It ran the risk of prying but it sounded more like genuine curiosity. Soren didn’t have to think back to remember it.

“Sometimes.” Maybe Jowan had known, but he probably hadn’t. Eadric had known what he was doing and Soren had known how to be quiet. Never in the Apprentice Quarters, only fools who wanted a cold dousing and a night’s humiliation in the dungeons met in the dormitories. “Less when we were competing for an Enchanters’ favour, more when using one another’s talents to improve our own studies. How much did Zevran tell you?”

“That a Templar carried an ill-begotten favour for him,” She answered in a dark voice, “And that you once tried to intervene at an age when such things should not have been your burden.” He bristled.

“Mind the pity in your voice when speaking of this, Morrigan.”

“Our son is but a year older now than you were then,” she countered him. “Do not mistake my outrage for anything less.”

“And what good will outrage do you?” He asked. “All parties are disbanded or dead. Put it from your mind.”

“Not until I know yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“ _Did you love him?_ ” She repeated, emotion creeping into her voice between the barbs of annoyance. “Was it pity? Was it _distraction_? Who was this person that you risked rape and abuse to protect?”

“You asked if we were lovers, but we weren’t _then_.” Fine! If he had to explain this then he would, just to keep her from running wild with her theories. “He was older than I by a year or so, but arrived after I did. As I already told you: we cycled through times of rivalry and friendship. There were times I hated him, days he sabotaged me, moments I wanted him gone from the Circle or sent to the dungeons for some minor thing. The Templar _changed_ some of that, but I was still a boy when it started and Eadric wasn’t much better off. It was different from what the other powers in our lives had done before, so I panicked and I made the wrong choices: I told the Revered Mother, and then I put myself in the Templar’s way. If not for my status as Irving’s Apprentice and the fact that I smartened up and stopped, I might have been made Tranquil for carrying on.”

“Could you not have _told_ the First Enchanter?” She pressed. Soren felt tension wind around his chest, an uncomfortable slither of apprehension.

“Did you share every whisper and fear with your mother, Morrigan?”

“Of course not,” she blustered back. “Exposing so many weaknesses and doubts would have…” She stopped talking. She pursed her lips together and cast her eyes to the wall.

“There you go,” he said, nodding to close the topic. Morrigan remained quiet, moving her hands until she was touching the thick rope of emeralds around her wrist, looking down briefly at the dark gems where they twinkled in the dim evening glow.

“Were you lovers when you left?” She asked him quietly, looking up very slowly, from behind the black sweep of her bangs.

“I was harrowed and recruited within two days.” He admitted, not certain anymore if this was a reminder to her. “I only had the chance to speak to him once before I left, and I was still too addled and stupid from the lyrium to even remember who he was. By the time it cleared up, I was too concerned with Jowan’s madness and talk of escapes to go near him. Besides, Mages and Apprentices didn’t fraternize: it ended by default the moment I was dragged from my bed.”

“Did you not see him at all, then, before you left the tower?” He scowled at her and let that be his answer. “No parting of any kind?”

 _“Morrigan._ ”

“You have avoided the question several times already, Soren.” Because it was a stupid question. “Whether or not I am entitled to it, I cannot help but now wonder how you felt during those early weeks of the Blight. That it _was_ a Blight and you were given to its nightmares I well understood, as well as the numbing reality that the Order you had joined was destroyed the same night. But your lover was left behind hundreds of miles away in a tower with an untouchable brute who abused him with your knowledge but inability to help, and I did not know until now.”

“There’s your answer: I must not have loved him.” There, done.

“Yet you clung to that treaty.” Her comment was confusing- until he _remembered_. “We dove into the Brecillian forest from Lothering because we surmised the blight would move north through it, and you desired to find the Dalish before they could be driven off to parts unknown. Then you laid out the path that would take us back towards Redcliffe, to the Circle of Magi, and eventually to Orzammar- but you always focused on the Circle. You were so utterly convinced of their aid, of their strength and purpose. You used to take their treaty out when Alistair was away from camp or asleep and read it to yourself.”

“I read all of them, Morrigan.” It had been his _duty_ to know what he was asking the various factions across Ferelden to commit against the Blight.

“But none so often nor as reverently as the one for the mages.”

“It was my _home_.” And he had been young. And he had been naïve. And he had not expected Loghain to poison so much so quickly. “I had every right to look forward to being in a familiar place again, with new powers to bring forward.”

“And Eadric did not factor into this at all?” She asked and Soren felt his teeth lock. “You intended to bring me with you: I was there in the tower entrance with you when we learned what had happened. If you had expected a warm welcome home then what possessed you to bring your new lover into the sight and presence of your old one?”

“Maybe the wheel had turned and I had gone back to hating him again.”

“For what _purpose?”_ She pressed and he did not like it. “An abused apprentice had no standing to lord over a Grey Warden. Why did you bring me?”

“I _didn’t_ bring you, Morrigan,” he reminded her, and harshly too. “With the way you conducted yourself, how you spoke of what was happening, the _people who were dying_ , I turned you aside and left you standing at that cold stone door.” But he had meant to. He had _meant to_.

In his naïve mind it had been so simple. Uncomfortable, but simple. They would arrive in the Circle, Irving and Greagoir would have welcome them. The treaty would have been discussed and argued because the Templars would resist letting so many mages loose without their supervision- and Soren had been ready to accept and twist Templar arms into more swords for the front lines.

He would have found Eadric who would have known to keep his mouth shut around Morrigan. Eadric would have confronted him privately, if at all, just to make sure they both understood where they now fit into one another’s lives. If that meant they were done, if the matter had been too painful or Eadric decided he just didn’t want to see Soren again, then that would have settled things.

But if their friendship could survive it, then if Soren hadn’t been able to help Eadric join the mages sent to combat the Blight: he would have conscripted him on the spot. Anything to get him out of that Tower as long as he was willing to fight for it.

“Why had you _intended_ to bring me?” As a message to Eadric and, Maker Take Him, because Morrigan _mattered_ to him.

“The history!” He pushed away from the wall, swinging his arms for emphasis. He wasn’t angry with her, but he would not! “The traditions! The library of arcane and ancient magics, the lore woven through every book and pedestal! Maker, Morrigan, I found you in a swamp with a hut full of indistinct baubles, hungry for knowledge and things you didn’t know. I wanted to take you to the Circle to see what you would think of it- and you _hated it_.”

She’d hated it. She had _hated it_. She had seen every wrong and negative and unpleasant thing in the Tower and completely ignored every _scrap_ of what had made Kinloch Hold bearable. She’d made light of the massacre and mocked the efforts to save the few mages suffering inside. She’d ignored the stones set by Tevinter artisans, dismissed the arcane runes chiselled into the floors and archways. She had ignored Wynne’s powers keeping the few rescued apprentices safe and derided her spell power for absolutely no reason.

Quiet understanding with Eadric had gone out the window. Impressing and flattering Morrigan’s arcane interests had died on the blood-stained tiles. Everything he’d hoped for had gone up in flames, so he’d left her nay-saying behind and brought Wynne along instead. Anything to try and stop the chaos burning the tower from the inside out.

That Eadric had been in Soren’s thoughts at all- and he had been… but then…

He wasn’t going to do this. Zevran had already screamed and lashed out at him for what he’d thought he’d known of Eadric. Morrigan didn’t need to know: he’d chosen the Wardens, and then he’d chosen her, and then the demons had-

 Nothing left. The horrible reek of charred flesh. A half-melted pendent looped around a bloodied wrist instead of over his head. A burst pouch of arcane crystals tied to the belt cinching his burnt robes. Knowing, just _knowing_ from the howling pain weeping from spirits across the thin Veil. Hearing his voice shriek and shatter against the walls before a final outburst of protesting flame seared away his struggles. Soren had been two open doors away from where the ritual cage had been cast. He had hated Alistair’s voice for announcing _another demon on the way_.

Zevran, his unfamiliar presence a decision made out of respect for his resourceful aid in Redcliffe, had wisely cautioned him that it had been neither the time nor place to linger.

Wynne, whom he had known was hurting more than him but hiding it better, had called it another shameful loss and left with her empty words.

Alistair, suddenly too much a Templar for Soren to stomach, had searched the room for anything of aid or value before heading back out, shield high, and begun the trek to the next room.

When they’d come back that way with Irving and the surviving mages, Soren had been too dizzy and nauseous from fighting to go find the room again. They had camped across the water to speak with the others, share what had happened, and Soren himself had been numb and overwhelmed by it all.

The next morning the corpse had already been dragged away. That had been it. No pendant, no crystals, no lock of hair or scrap of cloth. Not even real, concrete proof that it was him beyond the fact that he was not standing there among the survivors when Irving pledged the mage’s support to the Grey Wardens. Gone, just gone. Gone the way Soren had vanished from his life: too lyrium-addled to use his name or remember the taste of his mouth, and then carted off in the wake of blood magic scandal and the creeping hysteria of the Fifth Blight. No good-bye, no keep-sake, no contact, just _gone_.

“No, I didn’t love him.” He hated the memory. He hated remembering. He hated knowing that was how it had happened. He hated it and he hated himself most of all, because the way Morrigan dared to look at him made it all the more _awful_. His voice felt brittle in his sore throat, and his eyes were too warm, his clothes tight and the air thick. “If I’d loved him then I would have saved him. I would have woken up from the Harrowing and known who he was, and said more than just ‘ _good luck with that_ ’ when leaving for what I hadn’t known would be the last time. Are you _satisfied?_ ”

“Yes.” She said it so quietly, and Soren struggled between watching where her fingers were twirling the black iron band on her hand, and the look of outright _sympathy_ on her face. He did not want her useless- “Do you remember what your last words were to me, before we met again in the Dragonbone Wastes?”

“Something profane, no doubt.” He had _hated her_ for the last days of the Blight. His voice felt raw, but no tears had fallen. His vision blurred, but he was too proud for it.

“At the gates,” Morrigan recalled softly, and he did not like that she was coming closer to him. “You said _‘It’s useless to me now’_ after handing me the golden mirror you found in Orzammar. Atop Fort Drakon, it was _‘this is not for you’_ before you took that sword from off the ground and charged to the Archdemon’s writhing body for the final blow.”

He didn’t remember it, but he believed her. He remembered very little of the Archdemon itself. A reeking sulfur and cloud of molted blood and darkspawn taint. The clattering ratchet of ballista fire. The utter silence encasing his rapid breaths and foot-falls for a charge he’d made but couldn’t remember beginning or ending. He’d woken up a day or more later to a sky free of smoke and filled with sunlit rain.

“Your point?” She was too close now, because she reached out for his face and took it between both hands. He did not want her pity. He did not _want_ -

“My point is that you and I both know we can love to our greatest capacity, and yet still fall short of virtue and kindness.” She kissed his eyes and closing them forced the tears hovering there to fall, an irritating fact that was not helped by her thumbs brushing away the drops. “I think you loved him as much as you knew how, and as much as you were able. And it was a long time ago, husband, but I think the world owes you the time to grieve what was lost.”

He didn’t know what to say. He could either tell her it was _too_ far gone for the suggestion that he needed to grieve, or remind her that he was _not,_ in fact, her husband…

The second point hurt him more deeply than he thought it would, and in the end he said nothing. He hated himself, but he reached for her.

It felt _good_ to hold her, to be held. The familiar smell of her through her clothes, the dark crimson of her perfume, her fingertips brushing the back of his neck. It felt good but it was fleeting, impermanent, and dangerous. At any point she could walk through the Eluvian and vanish from his life forever, the same way he had left Eadric in the library and they had never crossed living paths again. She could lose him to darkspawn, to a stray arrow, or a fall from his horse. She _would_ lose him to his Calling, because his efforts were steadily petering out.

And what then? All of that investment, that trust, that support: wasted, and one of them left lesser for having relied on it.

But it felt _good_ to be held… Warmth crept up and overwhelmed his eyes, put pressure across his sinuses until wet relief seeped past his lashes. Maker, he hated the sensation of tears… Quiet as he could make them, she would feel them and she would know.

At least, _at least_ , his parting words to Zevran had been _‘be safe’._

“It has been too long since you slept well, my love,” Morrigan spoke to him in a hushed, gentle voice which did not insult him as much as it brought comfort. Her arms were tight around him, his face tucked to her throat and neck. He leaned on her too hard: all of his weight heavy against her. If she moved back then he would hit the floor and know he deserved it for not locking his knees. “Sleep tonight, with the embrium if need be, and tomorrow I want you to come with me.”

“…Where?” He asked softly, his eyes still weeping and his ribs beginning to ache. He felt _tired_ , so _tired_ now. Zevran had left and Morrigan was prying through filth and memories for things he did not want to relive- but he would find with her otherwise. If he pushed her then she would leave. Zevran was already _gone_.

She stroked his neck and tilted her head to kiss his hot cheek. He was flushed and miserable and _tired_ …

“I have… explored ruins, and temples, and castles, and outposts, and so many other places in search of knowledge.” He knew all of that, it wasn’t what he’d asked of her… “But never did I trespass into the Circles… If you will accompany me, my love, I want to finally visit Kinloch Hold.”

“ _Why?_ ” It had… been years. “It’s empty, Morrigan. Ransacked, burned… nothing… there’s nothing there.”

“And at first glance there was nothing in the Temples of Dirthamen, or Syliase, or Mythal,” she answered him in that gentle voice. “But that was not true. A thousand years of magical study and tradition was locked inside of that tower, Soren. A hastily set fire and a few lyrium runes could not have destroyed all of it, or even most.” She kissed his hair, he closed his eyes and was held tightly to her, his arms looped around her waist. “…will you come with me?”

He… he had not gone ho- gone back to the Circle- not since Irving’s funeral. It had been so long ago that… It had been _too_ long.

“… _yes._ ”

Morrigan’s embrace slackened enough so she could pry his face from her body, and she kissed his lips too gently for him to resist.

She took him to their bed, and she did not fall asleep until Soren felt the Fade calling him: gentle, persistent…

_Safe…_

* * *

 

“You’re bored, aren’t you?”

Jylan was not capable of-

“You,” Samar announced in the relative gloom of the _Lady Freeborn’s_ hold. “Are bored out of your fucking mind.” Two of the ship’s sailors were in attendance for this conversation, and were grinning to one another as Jylan responded to the accusation with:

“If you will explain how you reached such a conclusion, I will have a better chance of refuting it.”

Samar pointed over the hammock Jylan was standing beside: to the soft white light of the working glow-stone.

“One, how much lyrium did you waste on that thing?” He asked. “And two, why the _hell_ would you pull out lyrium on a _wooden ship?_ ”

“You are incorrect.” Jylan stated. “Although your caution surrounding refined lyrium is well-founded, and I agree that it would be unwise to open a vial of it in an environment which smells strongly of pitch and tar. However, I did not require any lyrium to fix the glowstone: I merely cleaned it.”

One of the sailors snorted hard, covering her mouth and nose with a hand when Samar gave her a threatening look over his shoulder. When she remained quiet, he looked at Jylan again.

“So you just rubbed it with a rag and it started working again? _Bullshit._ ”

“I did not clean the outside of it.” Jylan clarified. “I bypassed the exterior mechanism, and removed the build-up of corroded silver filament.”

“In Trade, Jeevan.” They were already using the King’s Trade. What Samar requested was simplified language, which Jylan considered before speaking:

“I opened it and scraped the melted bits out.”

“Why?” As Samar was the ship’s Boatswain, Jylan understood that it was his job to ensure the vessel was in proper running and working order at all times. He was tasked with ensuring all maintenance and upkeep tasks were fulfilled regularly and properly. Broken or poorly functioning glow-stones were under his jurisdiction as Boatswain. Oh.

“If I have overstepped myself as a passenger and compromised your duties as Boatswain, Samar, I will refrain from any further activities aboard the ship.” It had not been his intention to cause trouble for the crew, but intention did not matter when the outcome remained the same.

“That’s nice but that’s not what I asked. _Why_ did you fix it? _I_ know it’s because you’re bored out of your skull down here, but why do _you_ think you did it?”

“Because Master Arainai asked me to.”

Samar dropped his head back and swore. The sailors chuckled and ribbed one another behind him. He did not make them stop this time.

Jylan had been aboard the ship for two days. They had arrived in Denerim’s harbour earlier this evening and Master Arainai had disembarked with ample promises to return by dawn, but also permission for the Captain to leave if he did not make it back by the time the sun was fully above the horizon. Jylan had not left the hold at any point since yesterday morning when he had stepped off the Amaranthine harbour dock.

He had spoken to only one member of the crew besides his brother: an elven woman who had asked him if he knew where to empty the bucket provided for passengers’ relief, and then shown him where he could drink a ladle of fresh water whenever thirsty. The water tasted strongly of the wooden barrel it was carried in, but as they had known they would be in port again so soon there was no ration in place.

Other members of the crew had seen him, but not approached or spoken to him directly. A trio of them had stood by his hammock and ogled him openly for several minutes yesterday until Dirthamen had decided to growl at them. The dog made routine trips to the upper deck throughout the day, but always ultimately returned to lay down under Jylan’s hammock.

“I would have rather heard that you were bored,” his brother admitted.

“I will admit that I am not accustomed to such a quantity of empty hours.” He had completed half the embroidery pattern he had brought with him from Vigil’s Keep, only stopping when he had run out of dyed threads and the cramps in his fingers had grown excessive. “Master Arainai made several attempts to engage me in the basics of knife-play, but complained of the lack of light in the hold: thus the suggestion of fixing the stone.”

“How long did it take you to fix?” Samar asked.

“Perhaps ten minutes.”

“I’ll be back in a sec, stay here.” Jylan had not intended to leave the hold.

Samar left and one of the sailors went with him. His brother’s rank was superior to most of the riggers, runners, and assorted sailors on the vessel, but Jylan had not seen much of their activity from down here. The second sailor, a human boy in his teen years, gave a toothy grin at Jylan and then nimbly jumped and climbed up through his assigned nook. He braced one bare foot on one of Jylan’s trunks and the other against the rib of the vessel, reaching up to the twine and hook that held the glowstone over the bed. He removed it deftly, and hopped back down to the floor.

He crouched and worked his hands over the stone, clearly delighted by the ample streams of milky white light. He covered parts with his fingers and then spread them. He was very young and his fascination was harmless: glowstones could shatter if dropped from considerable height, but a few inches off a wooden floor and worked over by curious hands was highly unlikely to result in either damage or injury.

Samar remained gone for perhaps a quarter of an hour, long enough for the boy to grow bored with the stone and hand it back to Jylan before leaving. Eventually, he heard voices and footsteps coming back towards him.

“I mean even if he only fixes a _few_ of them,” Samar’s words reached him first.

“Let me see it first.”

Samar returned in the company of the ship’s Quartermaster, a dwarven woman with a shaved head and brutal scars ripped across the side of her face, misaligning part of her lips and a chunk of one nostril. She demanded the glowstone in his hand and Jylan handed it to her, aware of her authority on the ship despite not having spoken with her before. She spoke the words to douse and reignite the stone and it performed properly: the rune had not been damaged, merely obstructed.

“Do you know how many of these things we have on this ship? And how many are _broken?_ ” She asked him, and he said he did not know. “We were _supposed_ to get that lyrium-workers’ guild in Amaranthine to repair a bunch of them, but the hurricane sucked up all the money we had to pay them and it never got done. Next bet is Gwaren’s dwarven merchant’s guild to replace them all, but if you can fix them: I’ll find something to pay you with.”

“That is not-”

“Jeevan! _”_ Samar barked at him, a confusing interruption. “Anything you think is fair, Quartermaster. Thank you.”

“Get him to repair the larger ones first,” the Quartermaster told him. “We need the lights if we’re gonna sail past sundown. I can’t believe you were just _sitting_ on this! We could have put him to work as soon as you two rode into town last week, Ashera!”

“There was a lot going on, okay?” Samar wore a guilty look that did not suit him. “And I didn’t know he could do it, I’ve never actually watched him make stuff like this.”

“ _Get him to work_.” The woman huffed and turned away, stomping off to other duties.

Jylan was brought up into the quiet twilight of Denerim harbour. The ship was barely moving in its moorings, and the smells of the city’s smoky fires and twinkling lights felt far away. It was quiet and peaceful, with several sailors sitting out on the docks where metal drums were filled with flames to warm them as they ate and drank and threw dice.

“You don’t have to work tonight,” Samar told him, blowing white clouds from his mouth when he spoke. It was cold and they were only a hundred miles south of Amaranthine. “Maybe just get one done, or open, and then tomorrow you can work on the others. Even if it’s just a copper or two per stone, it’s more for us to live on when we get to Gwaren.”

“I am not accustomed to arranging payment for individual acts of labour, Samar. I apologize for not recognizing your intentions.” He wore his gloves and cloak and the scarf from Warden Lavellan to warm himself. His tunic and shirt were too thin. His trousers were much too thin. “If there is light then I will work. I am not fatigued.”

“You’ve been staring at the hold’s ceiling for two days, I’m not surprised.”

The glowstones were bound in thick ropes like glass floats: a net of cords keeping the stone from coming loose and dropping into the water. They provided light so vessels would not run into one another, to aid inspection of the hull, and simply to allow the sailors to work and go about their duties with some sense of safety. Compared to the fist-sized stone hanging over Jylan’s hammock, these ones were significantly larger. Samar aided him in removing the first of the seven stones lashed to the railing of the ship’s starboard side.

Finding the proper runic marks on the stone permitted the quartz lump to separate and fall open like a large flower. Inside was a thick cylinder of silver, inscribed with fine lyrium markings. He took the cylinder into his lap and used one of Samar’s knives to follow the runes, removing flecks and chips of corroded metal. At the end of a glowstone’s life, the silver would whittle away to nothing from repeated scrapings and cleanings. For this one, it was only half-gone. The quartz petals were stamped with the sigil of a Dwarven crafting house.

His brother brought him a bowl of hot beans and gravy, as well as a small skin of wine which they shared. He completed the task of cleaning before closing the stone and speaking the word to light it. The pumpkin-sized stone blazed with pure white brilliance, and he doused it again to prevent harm to his eyes after working in relative darkness.

Samar was pleased with him and hugged him roughly, pushing a kiss to his cheek. The stone was taken back to its place and his brother hummed while weaving and unweaving the ropes to get the stone back safely into its position. Jylan completed two more that evening, and the other four the next morning after the ship cast off with Master Arainai’s quiet, almost melancholy presence returned to them.

“It is good to be busy, isn’t it?” The other elf asked him, another glow-stone open at Jylan’s feet with the silver cylinder resting in his lap. The ship’s surgeon had given him a small steel hook which was far more appropriate for this manner of work than Samar’s fighting dagger. He was working on the port-side stones now.

“Yes.” It was also more agreeable to be out of the hold, in the cold wind and bright sun of the Amaranthine Ocean. They did not sail beyond sight of land before turning south, but the ship’s sails were open wide and swollen with eddies of fast-moving air. The wind smelled fresh with brine and early winter snow, frost collected on the south-facing parts of the ship as they cast white foam behind them in a wide wake.

“You have nieces and nephews from your sisters, do you not?” Arainai asked him. The work was tedious but not excessively detailed. He could speak and scrape at the same time.

“I have been informed by Samar that that is the case.”

“Do you know their names? Their ages?”

“I know that the eldest is perhaps eight or nine years old, and the youngest was born this summer.”

“That’s it?”

“I come bearing no warning or gifts for them. It is not necessary for me to distract my brother with questions when he is engaged with his duties as Boatswain. I will learn their number, names, and ages soon enough.” He completed work on the stone and closed it. In the light of day the glowstones did not hurt his eyes when he tested them.

“I have a nephew.” Arainai’s statement was nearly lost to the wind. “Not through blood, but love. I was able to see him last night and it was worth more than the gold I paid for the privilege. I hope that you will find something very similar among your own kin. Have you considered what you will do about your name, ser?” Jylan moved on to the next stone. He had two more for the port side and then three on the bow, and two on the stern. That would be the end of the large stones and from there he would return to the smaller ones found tucked in assorted places throughout the ship. Fire was dangerous, glowstones were not.

“As I have letters of recommendation from Vigil’s Keep for both my family and chantry names, it does not seem worthwhile to continue to spread and introduce my chantry name. However, it will ultimately depend upon my ability to find work and pay within the city. If I am employed by the Bann, or one of the Merchant Guilds which may desire to see me rekindle my connection to the Formari Guildsmen as a correspondent, then the surname Ansera is more familiar and useful to such ends. However, if I am contracted to a smaller apothecary shop or a new profession of less outside interest, it will not do to use one name at work and another in the alienage.”

“You are committed, then, to live in the alienage?”

“If my siblings will permit it, then yes.” The alternative would be to acquire a living space elsewhere in the city which would leave him in a state of isolation. Although Dirthamen could fight and perform protective acts, it was not wise to take advantage of that fact and tempt harassment or attack as a lone elf in a human city.

On the second day from Denerim, Jylan woke up to his breaths clouding the air in the hold. The tips of his ears and nose were numb from cold, and his hands remained numb until he completed twenty-one push-ups and thirty sit-ups in the dark. Dirthamen ran from one end of the hold to the other multiple times, and Master Arainai performed a series of elaborate stretches and breathing exercises before waking up properly for the day.

The food on board, as Samar had warned him initially, was not good. Pickled fish. Pickled eggs. Pickled roots. Very sour and salty and sharp, while also served cold because fire on board the ship was not worth the risk, and the crew had no mage. Burning powder, a substance Jylan used frequently, was not much better than open flame but was used sparingly to heat wine and beer in small portions. The bread was fresh from Denerim, but growing staler and harder by the day. At Master Arainai’s quiet insistence, Jylan avoided eating the food from Amaranthine.

Dirthamen suffered on cold fish when hungry, and spent less time on the upper deck unless Jylan was there working. The quartermaster, at least, was very pleased with him. No other members of the crew would speak to him. They knew trade, yes, but spoke to each other exclusively in Rivaini, which was also how Samar spoke to them.

On the third day south the ship was covered in frost and now sharp, dangerous tongues of ice. The riggers were sent up and down the lines to knock the sharp spikes off into the water, and Jylan was kept below decks with most of the other sailors until the dangers were removed. From that point on, Samar was consistently badgering a set of elven riggers to keep an eye out for more ice and to deal with it before it could form a danger.

On the fourth day, they were caught in a wall of fog which gave the captain cause the furl two of the ship’s three sails and dramatically reduce their speed. Because the glow-stones were working, they were ignited in the daylight hours because the sun was not strong enough to burn through the fog.

It snowed. Pieces of the grey sky and quiet wind that fell like ash from nowhere and vanished without sound.

The fog and ice persisted on the fifth day, when Jylan was woken up by the loud and alarming noise of something bashing and grinding into the ship’s hull. Master Arainai was deeply alarmed and leapt from his hammock and dashed up on deck to see what was happening, only to report back a few minutes later with Samar to explain that they had encountered early winter ice.

“We’ll be fine,” Samar explained with a dismissive yawn. “It’s not thick yet and it’s normal enough around Gwaren. We just need this fog to lift so we can find our landmarks and hit the harbour mouth without having to circle back around and try again.” His brother was a sailor and therefore in the most appropriate position to gauge their level of immediate risk. If he was not frightened then it was reasonable to assume he held that belief due to greater understanding of their situation.

Regardless, Samar went every hour down from the deck, through the hold, to the very bowels of the ship and back again with a working glowstone. He checked every plank and seam in the vessel as the ice thundered and slammed into the wooden beams. He reported to his captain and the quartermaster that there was nothing amiss.

As for the notion of missing the mouth of the Gwaren harbour: the stars barely visible directly over head at night told the navigator that they were within the Teyrnir of Gwaren, but without landmarks on the shore they may not find the estuary itself. Gwaren’s lighthouse would serve them best at night, not during the bright but fogged-over day when the beacon may be missed.

The captain had several sets of eyes scanning the mists, just to prevent that from happening.

On the sixth night, one of the watchers saw the lighthouse through the fog. The vessel made a slow, nearly blind approach in the darkness. Jylan was asleep for the approach, and was roused in the dark of the ship’s hold by a cold hand brushing down his face, the gesture repeated over his hair, and then his temple and cheek again. When he took a deeper breath of cold air and tried to move in the slumped shape of his hammock, Samar rubbed his shoulder instead, and helped his foot find one of the trunks so he could stand and climb down. Once he reached the floor, Samar pulled him into a long, warm embrace.

“It’s gonna be okay.” His brother’s breaths were warmer than the rest of him. He brushed his hand through Jylan’s unbound hair again, and took a rough breath before letting him go. “C’mon, we’re here.”

“The luggage?” He asked, respecting the quiet. There was no more ice grinding on the ship.

“It’s taken care of,” Samar explained, hands adjusting Jylan’s cloak and ensuring the soft fur of the Dalish scarf was warm to his throat. It had been necessary for him to sleep fully clothed as the weather became colder and colder. Jylan had not lived this far south since he had been a child. “I had a silver for them to split but having lights on deck for the approach made them sweet on you. Couple coppers and they’re good to carry the boxes once they get a bit of sleep.”

“We are leaving now?” It was dark and very quiet.

“Yeah. _Yeah_. We’re leaving now.” Samar did not speak with urgency, but with great feeling in his whispering voice. “Alienage gate is just off the warehouse district. Bring the box and your bag, the trunks and fabric the boys’ll bring. They know where I live- where _we_ live. C’mon.”

They left without rousing Master Arainai, with Jylan’s sack holding the food from Amaranthine, his clothes and his comb and his soap and a small rag for washing. The bracers he had been given by Warden Velanna warmed his arms through his thin sleeves, and the knife was unnecessary but attached to his belt and under his cloak. The Cherrywood lock-box, with its wealth of coin and lyrium and documents, he held under his arm. Dirthamen needed no encouragement to leave the drafty, dank hold and emerge under the midnight blue sky dotted with golden city windows and quiet cobble lanes.

Samar led him down the ladder to the hollow weight of the dock.

Fifteen years since he had last seen it, Jylan returned to Gwaren.

 


	27. Silent Night

 

The streets of Gwaren were bright. Between the moon and the thin traces of snow: there was a subtle brilliance to the lanes and alleys of the settlement. The same fog that had delayed their ship by two days clung to the tall stone warehouses and crept between the low walls of property and work-yard. Samar walked quickly, led Jylan quietly, with a hand behind him and frequent looks back to make sure Jylan was indeed following him- and closely too, with Dirth at his heels.

“We’re almost there,” his brother urged. His great need for them to leave the ship despite the time of night and sweeping darkness of the city was unexplainable. Jylan set himself to following quickly, breaths clouding the air as he walked. His hands were chill through his gloves, his shoulders holding some heat that was lost when his feet kicked open the fall of his cloak. His hood remained up, but did little to keep him warm. He walked with the Cherrywood lock-box under one arm, and the strap of the bag holding the food and a few personal belongings over his shoulder.

They turned off the main road away from the docks and quietly sped along until they reached a high wall with a gate set in it. Like many cities, Gwaren’s alienage was distinct from the other quarters by the face of a large gate, and it was now closed. They could not enter the alienage, and would have to return to the ship.

“This way.”

“The gate is closed,” Jylan repeated, uncertain how his brother could have failed to notice it.

“ _This way_.” He was beckoned a second time by Samar, whose short cloak was insufficient for the cold weather. If Jylan was cold, his brother should have been easily convinced to return to where it was, if not warmer, then at least sheltered from the open sky.

He followed his brother down a narrow lane between one warehouse and the quiet yard of a craftsman’s lodge. Here the snow had not melted away entirely, and formed deep puddles of slush over dirt-caked cobbles. Samar hushed him when Dirth’s steps were too loud through these puddles, and then beckoned a third time with his hand and led him further into darkness.

A pile of crates and old stones, a place where the wall had been blown down at its top five feet, exposing the twisted iron bars which reinforced the rest of it. Samar mounted the crates, turned back to give Jylan a hand to make the same climb, and the hound managed the feat without difficulty. Samar then scrambled up the broken wall and squeezed his way nimbly through the bars. He waited on the other side for Jylan to perform the same illicit task, and it took both of them holding one bar to pry the old iron in such a way as to make enough space for Dirth’s stocky shoulders to pass through. Samar then helped him quietly manage a narrow plank of wood down onto a small chicken coop. The animals made a gentle fuss as two grown men and a war-hound traipsed over their roof and then hopped down on the outside of the wooden fencing. They landed in more cold, snowy water, and walked quickly around through a very tight black alley littered with snow and trash. Samar broke free into moonlight and Jylan followed.

They were now standing in the shadow of a great oak tree, it’s broad branches barren in the winter cold. Briefly and unbidden, Jylan remembered the same twisted arms reaching across a blood-red sky, fire and smoke and taint poisoning the city.

Dirth keened softly in the dark.

The memory was gone before Samar approached the tree itself, its base painted with colours Jylan could not make out in the mixture of moonlight and snow. _Vhenadahl,_ that was the el’vhen word for it. Jylan followed his brother and watched him take out one of his daggers. He marked the bark of the tree with the blade and then wedged one of the playing cards he had made in Vigil’s Keep into the slat, then touched his forehead to the wood and backed away again.

“ _Superstition_ ,” Samar whispered when he collected Jylan with an arm around his shoulders. “ _And good luck._ Our house is this way.”

The alienage was a mixture of different sorts of buildings: some were stone at their first level and wooden constructs higher up, others were wood from the ground and were only one level, or as many as three. The taller buildings were built against the stone walls of the city around them, with smaller ones crowded close and tight in front, encroaching as closely to the _Vhenadahl_ as they could without threatening the tree.

Wash lines were stretched and strung between buildings, some holding sheets and rags that had frozen solid in the winter chill. Doorways were cluttered with broken, discarded tools: old shovels and picks and fishing rods and other things. Huge stacks of canvas rolls, old netting, and wooden planks marked the alienage anywhere the ground had not settled and opened up great puddles of snow and mud. It was not a well-cared for environment, but he had known not to expect beauty and grandeur.

Samar turned and led him through the first layer of cluttered little buildings, down a tight alley to a second row of houses, and brought him to a two-story home with a crooked front door that was plugged at the bottom with rags and soiled cloth. Dirth snuffed briefly at the door before turning away with a grunt.

It was the middle of the night and the door had no discernible lock. Samar struck his fist against the flimsy door three times, then whistled a tune up to the cold sky.

They waited.

They did not wait long.

Jylan heard footsteps, fast and frantic, before the rags were kicked away and the door wrenched open. A dark face with tangled black hair falling from the crown of her head in a curtain around her shoulders was staring at them so widely the whites of her eyes were glowing in the reflection of the snow. The woman was clutching a dark shawl closed over her chest, was shorter than Samar or Jylan, and she was nearly hunched over herself.

She looked at Samar, and only Samar, and with a frantic heave from her chest she wailed at him and let go of both the door and her shawl. Something clattered to the floor and she rushed straight into Samar’s arms, who embraced her hard and fast. She gasped sharply, then choked on a sobbing noise that heaved from her body.

“ _Ariyah_ -”

“You _awful man_ -” the woman’s voice was shrill but quiet, a painful husk of despair. “-you stupid, _awful_ fool! Samar- _Samar-_ ”

“Ariyah-!” He was firmer this time, and held her tight. “Sister, calm down. I’m alright, didn’t you get my letter from Amaranthine?” He stroked her hair, pulling it back as she began to weep into him. The pointed lengths of her ears came through her dark hair, and she grasped at him with a hand that-

Dirthamen uttered a low, dangerous growl.

Her skin was dark, darker than Jylan’s, and the moonlight did not shed enough of a glow. But he saw that the middle and ring fingers of her hand would not bend and they left something behind on Samar’s cloak when he shifted and tried to speak with her, to calm her. The sound of the dog made her jump and fight to get away from him, and her wide eyes found Jylan in the dark before she suddenly dropped to the floor.

She found the knife she had let slip and grabbed it, the point glinting in the low light before she was up from her crouch.

“ _Who the hell are you?”_ She hissed, enough of her hair drawn back to show something was not right with her face. The eye resting in moonlight should not have been darker than the one in the doorway, her cheek was noticeably raised, and when she clutched the knife it was with her off-hand, the other clutched close to her body like it hurt her.

“No-” Samar took her wrist, then the knife, wrenched the weapon free like he might have a feather from a bird. “ _No_. What happened to your face? What’s wrong? _Bahain_ , answer me.”

“ _Who is he?_ ” She gasped at Samar this time, grabbing his wrist and pulling him to come between her and Jylan. To relieve some of her distress, he took a quick step back from the door with Dirthamen swinging around behind him in a low crouch.

“He’s your brother, like me, now come inside and sit down.”

“Brother-!?”

“I found him, now inside. _In_.” He nearly picked her up to take her across the threshold and into the dark house. Jylan did not follow.

“I will remain out here until she is-”

Samar reached back out, took him hard by the neck of his cloak, and dragged him forward across the threshold. He staggered but did not fall, and stomped into the house where he was immediately caught in the dark and the overwhelming scent of astringent laundry soap. The air was damp and cold, and with the door open behind them it was the only source of light.

“Where are the children?” Samar’s rough voice asked in the dark. He was a formless shape that made wood clatter against stone, and close to him was the sound of Ariyah’s sharp breaths as she was made to sit.

“Asleep,” she gasped. “ _Samar-”_

“Jeevan, the fireplace is to your left, strike something.” It was a reasonable demand. “Is there wood?”

“ _I don’t know_ ,” she answered, and Samar repeated it in disbelief.

“You _don’t know?_ Ariyah what’s _happened?_ ”

It was very dark. Jylan’s hands reached through the murk and he walked and walked until he found the cold stones of a chimney, then the ledge of a mantel, then the mouth of a sooty hearth. He felt inside because it was not warm and found cinders and broken bits among the deep bed of ash. Although it made a mess, he followed the stones with his hands until he found two dry portions of wood and a box of scraps and kindling. He took a handful of the trash and pushed away some of the ash to clear a space for a new fire, stacking the dried wood atop it.

“When did your ship come in? Tonight?”

“Ariyah, answer me. Where did these bruises come from? Why is the house so cold?”

He drew the dagger from Velanna and turned the sheathe over in his hand, striking blindly at it looking for the line of flint set into the wood and leather casement. Sparks flew, but it took several more attempts until they caught on the loose threads and dried leaves and began to smoke. The small flames were fed with another hand of kindling, nearly emptying the box. He brushed his hands off as light began to build and the flames caught on the wood. It was not enough to burn all night, but it would suffice for now.

“You must be hungry. I’m sorry, there’s no dinner.”

“ _Stop._ Where are Rian and Saya?”

Jylan stood and let the light into the room, closing the front door and noting the rags before kicking them back into place under the noticeable space between the door and the threshold. The floor was covered in dried rushes, as well as a noticeable quantity of dirt over the stone tiles. Samar had seated his sister at a large dinner table which took up much of the space in the room, and hanging from several lines along one wall were sheets and clothes meant to be drying.

There was a modest kitchen behind his siblings: a counter of wood and stone with a warped top, a large bucket for carrying water in and out of the house, pots and pans and many, many jars on a crooked shelf hammered into the wall. Many dried herbs hung from the walls and ceiling.

Closer to him and to the fire was half a stone wall that was all that remained of an older structure. A large, oddly shaped bed was nearly lost under blankets, pillows, lengths of fabric and wool. All but hidden under one fold of black fabric was a small nose and two wide, wet eyes. Jylan could see the fragile curl of tiny fingers, and the rhythmic motion of a small mouth sucking a smaller thumb.

“Maker’s Breath- _Jeevan_.” Samar drew his attention away from the frightened, hidden child. He approached the table where Samar was gently cradling their sister’s hand between both palms. “Can you fix this?”

He looked down, and Samar held Ariyah’s hand out so he could see it. Her ring and middle fingers were darkly bruised, nearly crooked, and she held them very stiffly. It was possible that she had broken them, but he could not know for certain without touching her- something he was unwilling to do. After making his observation, he took a step back again and folded his hands together in front of him, hidden by the fall of his cloak.

“Samar, you can’t be serious…” She spoke to Samar but was looking at Jylan. One of her eyes was indeed bruised and her cheek was swollen. She had been beaten. “This can’t be him…”

Drawing a proper breath, Jylan addressed his brother’s request.

“I am not a healer, but I can provide a poultice for her hand and eye. If the fingers are broken, I would be capable of setting them, but have neither a splint nor bandages to wrap them with.”

Dirth traipsed back into this room. Jylan had been too preoccupied with the fire to notice that there was another doorway further inside the home that led off somewhere. The dog’s nose was snuffing at the dirty floor, ears up and alert. When the animal’s actions took his attention, they also drew Ariyah’s and Samar’s.

The dog circled the table, then snuffed many times at Ariyah’s chair, then at her skirts at which point she immediately shied back towards Samar. The hound was irritated and made a deep rumbling noise in his chest.

Jylan saw that when Ariyah moved, her skirt parted with a frayed, uneven seam. It had been torn. It had been ripped.

“Samar.” He had not intended to speak as he did not know what right he possessed to do so. Dirth snuffed and sniffed at her repeatedly, growing more and more agitated, and it recalled several instances of the same behaviour at Vigil’s Keep following each of Jylan’s encounters with- “Is there a midwife in the alienage?”

“A _midwife?_ ” Samar asked. Ariyah stared at Jylan with eyes wide and silently filling with terror, and he lowered his gaze to the table. “Why would we need…?” A sudden pause. “Dirth-?” Recognition. “ _No._ ”

Samar stood up quickly from his chair and Ariyah grasped at him with both hands, making pleas in a shattered, whispering voice.

“ _Stop-_ Samar, _no_ -” She pleaded, and he shook her hands off, an ugly look of rage twisting his face. “His ship came back a month ago and we didn’t know how much longer yours would take. He brought silver, the _Hahren_ said we had to try again so I _did_.”

“ _I’ll kill him_ -”

“No, the _Hahren_ said-”

“Then I’ll kill the _Hahren_ too!” Samar shouted, his voice much too loud in the quiet room. “Why is there no firewood? Why is there no _food!?_ If he brought silver into this house then _where is it? And where is Rian!_ ”

“Rian is with the little whore and left her milk-brat with me!” Ariyah howled back at him, frightening Dirthamen from her side and bringing the hound back quickly to swing behind Jylan’s legs. “And I don’t know! _I don’t know!”_ She screamed.

Jylan heard a sharp, piercing wail break out from under the blankets next to him. When he looked, he saw only one small hand slide out and cup over the open mouth of the wailing child, dragging the smaller one down until the blankets hid all signs that they were there. The bedding shifted in too many places for one person, and the crying was muffled by both the blankets and the screaming:

“He said he would bring fresh meat from the market for the children and I, took his silver and vanished all day!” Ariyah railed at Samar, standing and holding her crippled hand to her breast like she would slap him with it. “When he came back after sunset without so much as a cabbage leaf and reeking of drink, he did _this_ to me for not making him dinner from nothing! In front of his own children!”

“You let him!” Samar yelled, and she slapped him.

“He took _every coin_ and tried to belt _my son_ for saying you would be home to stop him!” She screamed back at him, tears cutting down her cheeks. “You’re _never_ _home!_ And _my son_ had to pay for it until _I_ stopped him, _without_ _you!_ ”

Samar was quiet in the face of this, the slap quelling his temper rather than firing it up further. Jylan watched in utter silence as his brother gathered his thoughts, then clenched his jaw and spoke again.

“Your face, your hand: where else did he hurt you?”

Ariyah took a sharp breath, staggered at the question, and shook her head.

“That is between husbands and wives,” she choked. They all heard Samar take a bracing breath of anger, they did not hear Jylan before he spoke.

“Master Ashera,” and he did so with the intention of distracting from the unwise verbal blow Samar intended to inflict on their sister. “You are fatigued from the long voyage and emotionally distraught. Your sister is in a state of intense physical and emotional discomfort, and her children have already been exposed to intense conflicts this evening. I understand that no one in this household was provided with proper food yesterday, and hunger leads to powerful experiences of distress.”

They both looked at him with tense, narrow suspicion. He did not feel anxiety at their attention and did not back down from the scrutiny. He was tranquil, and he was offering to mediate their immediate issues of hunger and desperate anger.

“Why did you call me that?” Samar asked him, his voice rough.

“Because I do not refer to you by your surname, and it seemed the most efficient way to distract you without raising my own voice in the middle of your conflict.”

“Good job.”

“Thank you. Do you know where more wood or other fuel for the fire may be acquired at this time of night? The two pieces present in the fire now will burn down soon.” Samar’s gaze fluttered past him and Jylan pivoted to allow a clearer view of the small fire. He nodded without speaking. “If you will return promptly with such fuel, I will administer the poultice to your sister and prepare the meal provided to us at the beginning of our journey for her and the children to consume.”

“Why does he talk like that?” Ariyah asked, still watching Jylan with wavering, watchful eyes.

“It’s just the way he is,” Samar answered her in a soft voice. “You want to eat that stuff _now?_ ”

“I understood from your sister’s cries that she and her children have not eaten all day, and were subjected to violence at the very end of it. Have I misconstrued events?” Samar shook his head and Ariyah’s dark eyes looked close to tears again. Therefore, he continued: “As the children are now awake due to your argument, it seems only reasonable to feed them. Your family is cold, Samar, please fetch the wood to warm them.”

His brother nodded once, then repeated it several more times. He was tired and deeply stressed, and turned around quickly to catch Ariyah up into a tight hug and kiss her hair. She clung to him the same way and let tears fall, then they let go of each other and she mumbled instructions and a direction to him. He opened the door and stopped very abruptly on the threshold for a moment, then continued out and shut the door behind him.

Jylan unslung the bag from the ship onto the table and opened the top of it. The Cherrywood lock-box was placed beneath the bag. In no particular order, he removed the dry loaf of bread and the portion of smoked deer meat, then the two smoked pheasants, which were wrapped in a piece of linen. One of the birds was missing a leg: a peace offering to Dirthamen while on board the ship.

“Who are you?” Ariyah asked in a quaking voice, her eyes wide as she watched the food appear from his hands and settle on the table. He did not know if the surface was clean, but hunger would not be dissuaded by such things. “Stranger, where did you get all of this?”

“From the denizens of Vigil’s Keep, a fortress in the north of the country where I was employed as a chemist and apothecary.” He removed the jars of preserved fruits, checking two of them and replacing the ones of strawberries and peaches, replacing them with the strips of cured ram’s tongue and salted pork. “May I place one of the birds in a pot of yours, to heat in the fire?”

She moved wordlessly away from him, showing a weak limp of sore pain as she did so. Jylan watched her fetch a black iron pot with a lid and bring it to the table, and he placed the smoked meat inside before closing it. As he had said, he placed it in the hearth next to the small fire to heat up.

He heard a quiet whimper and when he looked to the bed he saw Dirthamen resting his chin on the blankets, a small hand reaching out and grasping the animal’s muzzle and nose. A young child with tear-stained cheeks and messy black hair was reaching her arm out from under the blankets to touch the animal, the protective arm of an older boy wrapped around her as he pushed the blankets down off his head and showed his bruised face in the firelight.

Jylan returned to the table and reached into the bag again. This time he withdrew the small wooden box given to him by midwife Valora and slid the top off. The verdant branches, the snowdrop oil, the tonics and extracts. He selected a small, familiar ceramic jaw with a wooden top and replaced the lid on the box. He opened the jar to reveal a fragrant green jell, and carried it to where Ariyah was sitting.

“This is a poultice of elfroot and dawn lotus powder,” he explained. “It will bring down the swelling and ease the pain of your injuries. I request your permission to apply it to your face while the food is warmed.”

“Tell me who you are first,” she told him warily, but had reclaimed her seat at the table. Her eyes spoke of more weariness than fear. “Sanjay!” She called sharply, not breaking eye-contact with Jylan. Rather, he was the one to look down instead so as not to offer offense. “Stay on that bed. Wait for your uncle to come back.”

He answered her question.

“I was born Jeevan Ashera of the Gwaren Alienage, the third of your four brothers.” He explained himself and reminded her of where he fit into their family. “I understand that my presence and behaviour may be unsettling to others, therefore it is necessary to inform you that I do not expect acceptance or affection. I have returned to Gwaren to acquire paid work for my skills so as to help continue to support your family. May I apply the poultice?”

She was quiet and she stared at him for several silent seconds. Finally, she looked deep into the fire and closed her eyes.

“Fine.”

The mixture in the jar was very potent, that was why the Grey Wardens used it. Jylan needed only to wet his thumb with it and apply the oils sparingly before they began to work on her. She permitted him to look at her hand and it was good that her fingers were not broken, merely bruised and pulled sharply out of alignment.

“I can correct the misalignment of your fingers by applying pressure to them. It will not be painful, but will be unpleasant.”

“Just- _fix them_.” He fixed them. She cried out when he did so and fresh tears came down from her eyes, but she was able to move them again freely after that and followed his instructions to only touch the jell before applying it across her knuckles.

Samar returned to the home with pieces of a large wooden pallet taken from one of the trash piles in the alienage. He broke them apart with his knives and the heel of his boot, and threw several planks into the fire after pulling the pot out carefully and setting it on the table.

Two more children had appeared out from under the blankets. A girl a little younger than the boy, holding the soft and fussing body of a young baby in her lap. The baby had a much fairer complexion than the other children and its face was strange. A lump under the blankets was weeping softly.

The boy with the bruised face was looking at Jylan with intense hatred. His mother called him Sanjay, and Samar reached under Sanjay’s arms to pull the crying, soft-limbed little girl up to his shoulder and chest, hugging her sweetly and stroking her hair.

“Let your uncle see your face, Sanjay.”

“He hurt mama,” the angry boy said sharply.

“He helped her and he brought you good food to eat.” Samar scolded, but his voice lacked heat as he soothed the crying child on his shoulder. “He’ll make your face stop hurting, boy, now go to him.”

Sanjay did come to Jylan, but he did so with his thick dark brows drawn down in a hateful way. He looked at his mother, who was pulling apart the heated pheasant and stuffing its meat into chunks of the stale bread. Ariyah handed the portion to the little girl who brought her the baby, which she took into her lap because it was too young to sit up on its own. The baby was strange.

“Tahir,” Ariyah called to the bed, where the blankets were still weeping. “Tahir, come and eat. There’s food, aren’t you hungry?”

 _“No-_ ” the blankets wailed. _“No- noo…_ ” Ariyah clicked her tongue.

“Fine, don’t eat…” She grumbled. “Samar, bring her here next to me. Anu?” The little girl on Samar’s shoulder turned at the sound of her name.

Jylan touched the green salve with his fingertips and looked at the straight black marks on Sanjay’s face. He had been struck with a belt, or a flat paddle. His hair was short and wild, and his eyes were very angry.

Before Jylan could touch him, the boy spat in his face. He shoved Jylan’s shoulders and although Jylan was stronger, he had been crouching and was knocked off balance. It did not hurt to tumble backward, and he did not spill the poultice.

Samar’s hand grabbed his nephew by the scruff of his dirty shirt and yanked him backwards. When the boy resisted with a snarl, Samar simply lifted him up and set him down firmly on one of the chairs around the table. He took a knee and snatched the boy’s wrist away when Sanjay tried to swipe at him, and showed his teeth with a loud voice.

“That’s _enough_.”

“He hurt _mama!_ ” Sanjay yelled, and he kept yelling when Samar tried to speak. “You left and he hurt her! He made her cry! He hurt her hand and you weren’t there! You didn’t come back!”

“Sanjay-”

“ _You didn’t come back!_ ” The boy screamed it this time, and then his quivering lip and red-blushed eyes gave in to an outburst of deep, exhausted sobs. He closed his eyes with tears bubbling down his cheeks, his whole body shaking as he sat there in front of Samar and wept.

Anu and the other girl next to Ariyah both began to wail, the older one with a piece of half-chewed bread and meat just sitting in her mouth. It was a chain reaction of one child’s distress bleeding over and setting off the others. Within moments, even the infant was crying against Ariyah’s shoulder. She was looking across the table at Samar with a lost, exhausted look, and he was just as forlorn.

Jylan’s ears were ringing with the sound of crying. He could not remember a louder noise in his life. Five crying children all sitting and screaming in one room together. They did not know him and he did not know them, he did not have the emotional capacity to sooth or comfort them, and did not know how he could possibly supply aid to either of his own siblings.

The solution Ariyah devised was not one he was comfortable with participating in. She stood up and went to him directly where he was standing in his shock. She gave him the infant.

“I cannot-”

“Just _hold him_.”

It was warm and soft and weighty but also squirming, and screaming, and its bones were soft and its clothing was thin and damp from sweat. It was practically guaranteed that he would drop it and such a fall would kill it, which would be an intolerable reality to overcome.

He sat down on the floor to limit the possibility of dropping the baby. He set its feet on his legs, then brought it to rest against his chest and arm. It continued to cry and scream and he did not know how to sooth it. The room was a chaos of screams and tears.

That Dirthamen had begun to whine only added to the horrible noise. Jylan considered opening the front door but doing so would require either putting the infant down on the dirty floor, or carrying it that far to let the dog out. He did not know what to do, and it was Samar who spoke the dog’s name and then indicated Jylan. The hound hid its face in his lap, ears pressed down flat against the noise.

Ariyah and Samar pulled the blankets off the bed, revealing the fifth child, Tahir, another boy who sat up wailing that he was cold and swiftly going as red-faced as his siblings. Ariyah climbed onto the bed with her torn skirts and sore body, and laid down. The youngest girl, Anu, was placed into her arms and drawn close to her. The next one, Raveena, was given a place to cuddle close to her stomach. Tahir needed Samar to physically drag him up from the foot of the bed where he had hidden himself, and his brother Sanjay was dropped on top of him before Samar kicked off his boots, cast his cloak off and then over his sister and nieces, and began gathering blankets up over the children. He entered the bed himself just to give the children a choice of who to cling to.

Slowly, like nails screeching down slate, the crying began to fade out. First one, then another, then another, until it was only the infant in Jylan’s arms that was sobbing red-faced and scared from all the noise. Dirthamen’s whines petered out and Jylan himself was numb from the horrible din.

The children had been through too much. They had been hungry, and then their father had accosted their mother, attacked their brother, and then turned again on Ariyah if not in this room then still in this house where they had been witnesses. The house had been left cold and dark and quiet in his absence, and then their mother had let a stranger into the home again while yelling and screaming with their uncle.

“Hold him properly and he’ll stop.” He looked up and saw Ariyah looking at him from the bed, Samar’s head twisting around to look back over his shoulder at Jylan. “Have you never held a baby before?”

“No, I have never held a baby before.” Samar chose to scoff at this. It was not appropriate.

“Try taking off the scary hood first,” his brother suggested, then went back to trying to sooth one of the two boys in front of him, one of whom had crawled up to peer over his shoulder at the stranger holding the screaming baby. As the child’s face was not bruised, he surmised it may have been Tahir.

Jylan removed his hood. He did not see how it would help. What happened was that the infant’s screams withdrew to quieter, uncomfortable hums and whines of distress. His face was still red, his eyes and mouth wet from screaming. Although red and crinkled, his small eyes were blue. When Jylan touched the baby’s face, he could confirm now that the child was far, far lighter in complexion than he was.

Finally, he realized why the child looked so strange.

“This is a human baby.” Perhaps an elf-blooded one, but certainly: it was human.

“Better off left on the chantry steps.” Ariyah’s voice was disdainful, but too tired for more venom. She was kissing one of her children around the words. “If he’s calm, bring him here to me.”

Standing up with the infant in his arms was tedious and unsettling. It felt like every bone and organ inside the child was loose and liable to slide out of its body if handled too roughly or simply in the wrong manner. He managed to find his feet, and to cross the room, and to lean over Samar’s back and let Ariyah…

She took the babe around one arm and simply took him like that, bringing him down between the other children. One of the little girls who he thought might have been Anu, reached up as a sign for the baby to fall to her. Her bother Tahir quickly squirmed over to help cradle and hold the infant between them.

“He’s Saya’s,” Samar’s voice was tired and low. “Their cousin.”

“I will assume that there is a reason why the infant is here with Ariyah and not with Saya.”

“So will I,” Samar agreed. “Hey, there’s a bit more space if we shuffle over. You can lay down.”

“I will decline.” With his answer, he took a small step back from the bed. “My presence would likely only serve to alarm them once again.”

“That wasn’t _your fault_.” Samar meant to sooth him, but that was unnecessary.

“I did not mean to imply as much, however, my presence was still a contributing factor.”

“This is your _life_ now, get over here.”

“Thank you, but no. I will remain in the room, but not crowd the bed further.”

“ _Jeevan-”_

“Samar, _hush_.” Ariyah swiftly cut in. She was rubbing one of her son’s backs gently, and the child’s eyes were closed as a sign of either deep comfort or sleep. “There are still blankets on Rian’s bed. Sleep in there, stranger, or bring the blankets out here and sleep on the floor.”

“He’s not a stranger,” Samar hissed.

“He is to my children and he is to _me_ , Samar,” she countered hotly. “I didn’t tell him to get out or throw his kindness back at him, I told him where to find something to sleep on. Now _enough_ , it’s too much.” Samar huffed back at her, but let the matter die.

Jylan left them and explored the house. It was unfamiliar to him, he did not know anything about the layout of the rooms or where the doors led. There was one other room on this floor which had a root cellar, very empty, and then a creaky flight of stairs which led to the second floor. Here there were several bedrooms, each incredibly tiny, and one with sheets which were badly mussed and thrown about. Jylan shied away from that room to avoid the risk of encountering the distinct, meaty smell of sex.

Two of the rooms were cold and untouched. He did not know which was Rian’s but pulled the thin quilt off of one and returned to the main room downstairs with it.

“One of us’ll walk you to the midwife tomorrow,” Samar was explaining gently, and Jylan did not hear Ariyah protest this decision. Jylan added more wood to the fire, and placed the uneaten food back into the same pot as the pheasant before covering it.

He unfastened and spread his cloak over the rushes and dust collected on the stone floor, laid down, and spread the blanket over his legs and torso. He kept his boots and belt on, there was no point in undressing as he would become very cold. Dirthamen only waited until the blanket had settled before immediately curling up next to him, head on his paws, and a tired huff announced the hound’s fatigue.

They each, one by one, dropped off to sleep.

He opened his eyes slowly before dawn. The fire had burned down to glowing embers and the floor was very, very hard and uncomfortable. His back and shoulders and hips all hurt, and he felt brittle as he pushed himself up onto his knees. The room was cold when the blanket fell off his back.

Jylan brought the fire back with a few minutes of careful work. The planks from the broken crate were thin and burned down too quickly, letting off licks of black smoke which smelled foul. Although the material was not ideal, it served its function and offered both light and warmth to the room.

Jylan found a candle and holder on the mantle and took it down, lighting the wick and carrying it with him. He went into the root-cellar and looked at what was available. Most of the shelves were barren, empty meat-hooks brandishing nothing. There were only a cluster of old dusty jars with unknown contents. The dirt floor had been disturbed and never pushed back down, but he doubted the presence of additional potatoes, onions, carrots, or other root vegetables. Such cheap foodstuffs, even in winter, would not be costly to restock.

He went to the kitchen and found no food of note. A bag of flour, half empty, a jar of something that was not like corn or millet or barley, but close, with only a few cups’ worth at the bottom. A piece of lard. Glass jars of varying colour and design, the most decorated items in the house: spices he did not pry into. Eight small pigeon eggs were hidden in a brown jaw, under an over-turned bowl.

It was illogical that the kitchen should be across the room from the fire, but the answer was an iron cooking stove with an attached pipe leading up through the ceiling and out of sight. Jylan knelt and opened it: the bottom had worn away and fallen out, rendering the stove useless.

There was a water pump, something unexpected in an alienage slum. Wary of waking his sister or her children, Jylan did not try the handle, but he did kneel again and open the cupboard under the sink. The pump had a split pipe leading down into the ground. It was as useless as the stove.

Someone had invested money into rebuilding this home after the devastation of the Blight, but the family had not been able, for whatever reason, to maintain it.

He would do so.

He continued his search of the house. The steps creaked but were sound. The walls were stained, but relatively solid. The beds were too small and too few for the number of children, and if the family did not have proper firewood or money for charcoal then it was clear why they chose to sleep downstairs by the main hearth, rather than try to heat every room.

He did not go into Ariyah’s room, or the one he assumed was hers given the mess and reminders of violence. One of the smaller rooms he surmised as Samar’s. There was a broken sextant on the chest of drawers and cold, discarded papers: a ship manifesto from several years ago, a cargo list from a ship that was not the _Lady Freeborn_. He did not go through the drawers or chest in the room, but took note of the window: the glass had broken and the room was both very cold and very damp. Considering the cost of glass, it may be prudent to simply board up and seal the window rather than repair it.

The next room was locked.

The last was the one he had taken the blanket from last night. The pipe from the broken kitchen stove passed through the floor and up through the ceiling. If there was an attic, Jylan did not see the place to access it from.

“There’s nothing worth stealing, stranger.” Ariyah was awake and about her business when Jylan returned to the main level. His sister was in her kitchen, her long black hair tied back with a strip of fabric, and her sleeves rolled up. She had the pot of untouched food from last night open in front of her and her hands were shredding one of the pheasants, ripping the cold flesh off and breaking it up smaller and smaller, removing every bone and placing them in a small pile next to her elbow. “Why are you here?”

There was a faint, misplaced scent of pipe-smoke.

“I was dismissed from my previous contract, and Samar made a compelling argument that I should seek employment here in Gwaren, closer to your family.” Her hands stopped, but the only part of her that moved were her eyes.

Ariyah had very dark, very intense eyes, nearly black and yet wide even for an elven woman. The colour and size made the whites stand out sharply in contrast. She had given the same trait to her son, Sanjay.

“My family?” She repeated in a sharp voice. “Aren’t you going to claim it for yourself? Make it yours? Make it sound like you belong here, just because?”

“I have not only been away from Gwaren and completely out of contact with my kin for many years, Mistress Ashera, but I was also subjected to something known as the Rite of Tranquility during my time in the Circle of Magi. I am not ignorant of the discomfort my presence can bring to others, and as I said last night: I hold no expectations of acceptance or affection.”

“Then what do you want?”

He did not want anything: he was tranquil.

“To be useful, and tolerated.” Her hands slowed in their labour, but did not stop again. She looked down at her work and resumed the same pace, discarding bones and keeping everything else in the pot. She took a rough breath and nodded her head to the side.

“Then go draw a bucket of water from the well. And hang that second bird in the pantry, we won’t need it today.” Jylan took the smoked bird from Vessa and hung it from one of the meat-hooks in the root cellar, then roused Dirthamen by moving the hound off his cloak. He pulled it on and drew the hood up over his head, fetching the bucket as Samar gave a loud yawn and stretch from the crowded bed.

“Hey- where’re you-?”

“Don’t stop him,” Ariyah cut in. “I just told him what to do.”

Jylan removed the cloth from under the door and pulled it open. It was bright and cold and crisp outside, and he waited only a moment because he heard Dirthamen’s paws scrambling over the rushes to come after him. The door swung shut.

The scent of pipe-smoke was more pronounced.

Master Arainai was standing next to the front door, a long-stem pipe in one hand with soft clouds of sweet smoke curling around his nose and hand. He offered a cheeky, smoke-filled grin.

“A most pleasant morning to you, Compounder.”

“That is no longer my title. Why are you here?”

“Why, I’m taking in the wonderful sights and sounds of the alienage, of course!”

“From a dirty back alley filled with trash?” It was likely that the fact that Jylan could not intone or commit emotion to his voice would increase the ludicrousy of Master Arainai’s statement. He was correct: the other elf made a rough coughing noise in his throat and then gestured with his pipe for them to walk together. As Jylan did not know which way the well lay, he followed.

“I understand that there was an upset in your household last night, and I thought it prudent to linger for a while and ensure that questionable persons did not make a return.” He had followed them from the ship and listened at the door.

“You are referring to my brother-in-law?”

Master Arainai stopped short, raised a hand and turned to face Jylan directly. He hesitated for a breath to select his words, and then spoke smoothly.

“Men of such nature do not deserve the distinction of family, Compounder. They are not brothers, or husbands, or fathers: they are simply parasites who feed off the pain and control of others. Put him from your mind. What were you sent out here for?” Master Arainai had killed him. Provided the murderous act was not blamed on Samar or Jylan, the matter did not require explanation to the rest of the family.

“To fetch water.”

“This way then.”

The alienage gates were open and there was much activity around the _Vhenadahl_ : servants and workers and labourers all getting ready for their work day much earlier than many of their human counterparts likely needed to. Dirthamen was excited by the activity, but kept close to Jylan as they moved through the sparse tangles of workmen and washwomen. Jylan was able to draw cold, clear water from the deep well built near to the great tree and turn back with Master Arainai to find his siblings’ dwelling again.

“Have you any thoughts for the funds you brought?” Master Arainai asked, both of them walking with their hoods up: Arainai because of his tattoos, Jylan because of his brand.

“Yes.” And he proceeded to explain: the front door needed to be either repaired or replaced. The bottom of the iron stove and pipe for the water pump. “That so many of the components are in place implies a modest investment to have them restored. The pipe below the floor is connected to water, the stove already has a working chimney.”

“You will want to verify both of those facts before you start anything.” Arainai offered caution but also encouragement. “The _last_ thing you need is to throw gold at a project only to find out that the water dried up or the chimney was sealed. But, if you are successful: the home could be quite comfortable. Have you put forward any considerations for work?”

“No. It appears that arrangements have changed drastically since Samar was last home, and as I can expect my severance pay to continue to reach Gwaren for the next few months it is not necessary that I acquire employment immediately.”

“Take a few days to settle in,” Arainai agreed, clapping him on the back. When the assassin fell back to vanish before reaching the home, Jylan stopped as well.

“Were you watching the house from the time Samar and I arrived until now?” He asked, pulling Arainai back to him with his words where the other elf had been mid-step in getting away from him.

“I don’t think your brother is very happy about it, but yes,” he admitted. “He saw me when he left to find firewood for the rest of you, but permitted me to remain when I told him there was no need for both of us to freeze outside.” Jylan had not noticed.

“I do not have the authority to invite you inside, nor can I say if Ariyah will permit either of us to eat, but it is warmer within the house than on the street. If she and Samar will consent to have you, will you come inside?” Arainai touched one gloved hand to his chest.

“Compounder, I am _touched_.” It was unclear whether he meant this statement as sarcasm or not. His voice carried playfully with high and low tones, but his eyes betrayed surprise. “Perhaps in a few days’ time. The children already must deal with one hooded stranger in their midst, best not to alarm them with one more.” That was a reasonable expectation, and Jylan nodded to show his understanding.

Master Arainai lingered in his place for a few moments more, and Jylan turned away to continue back to the house.


	28. The Boatswain's Brother

 

Ariyah fed her children a pie of smoked pheasant meat and permitted Jylan to eat from it as well. The children, from oldest to youngest, were: Sanjay, Raveena, Tahir, Anu, and Saya’s baby.

Sanjay was a smaller, angrier version of his mother. He was eight. He had very dark skin and black hair, with intense eyes that seemed to glow when he was angry. He would yell at Tahir when the younger boy made him angry, and would fight with his sister, Raveena, who would shriek and kick back at him without reservation. Towards Anu and the baby, however, Sanjay was practically docile, and consistently gentle.

He looked to Samar as a hero. He would run and bury his face in Ariyah’s skirts after his fights with Raveena. He hated Jylan with everything his young heart could muster.

Raveena talked, constantly, about anything. About everything. She had her mother’s hair: black but straight, almost frizzy when out of its braid but easily brushed and rewoven into a thick black rope that was then wound around on top of her head and pinned in place- all while she continued to chatter and speak. Raveena was the first to ask what was the dog’s name? Why Jylan did not smile or kiss them? What was the mark on his face for? What was in the box on their table? Where had he come from? What was a Vigil? Had he ever seen a griffon? Did he know her Uncle Rian? Had he brought them any gifts? No, food was not a gift. Earrings were gifts, and bangles, and new shoes and a pretty red cloak and a comb made from sea shells and a queen’s golden shield and-

She kissed Jylan on the cheek and said thank you, and he was required to ask the child what she was thanking him for before he understood that Dirthamen was her dog now. Dirthamen protested the notion of being gift-given a second time from under Jylan’s chair at the breakfast table, but went unanswered. It was impossible to transfer the bond from Jylan to Raveena.

Tahir was smaller than Raveena or Sanjay, because he was three. He was a round-bellied boy with sad eyes, his complexion lighter than his brother or sister and closer to Jylan’s own. His black hair was limp and short, and he was prone to sudden bouts of crying which irritated his mother and exasperated his uncle. Tahir was the first of the children to select Jylan for comfort when his brother Sanjay grew frustrated with his simpering and shoved him off his chair over breakfast. Tahir deferred from his mother, who was on the other side of Sanjay’s intimidating scowl, to Jylan, whose chair was next to him.

The child simply placed both hands on Jylan’s leg and hoisted himself up. Tahir climbed by grabbing at his belt, then the front of his tunic, the laces at his throat and the seam between his tunic and shirt sleeves, all while moaning and crying to himself. Jylan did not know the appropriate way to either aid or discourage his efforts and looked to Ariyah, who was fully engaged with Sanjay and the baby and could not spare attention for him.

He was prompted to act without guidance when he felt Tahir’s leg slip and the child’s weight pitch so he would likely pass between Jylan’s knees and strike the floor. He grabbed the back of the boy’s thin shirt and lifted the leg he was sprawled over, catching Tahir across the front with his other hand and arm. The boy was not alarmed by his near-fall or Jylan’s incompetent hold on him, and proceeded to kick and squirm with the same miserable whines as before, without interruption. When he was righted in Jylan’s lap, the boy sulked openly and reached helplessly across the table towards his plate of food, crying until Jylan consented to reach for the meal on the child’s behalf. His nephew did not attempt to eat from Jylan’s food, but rather pulled his own wooden bowl into his lap and proceed to shove handfuls of meat and crust into his small mouth, abruptly content.

Ariyah watched him with unwavering intensity until Tahir was finished his meal and slid off Jylan’s lap, but his sister ultimately said nothing of the incident.

Anu, the youngest of Ariyah’s children, was Sanjay’s shadow. He was grown enough to pick her up and carry her about, and did so frequently. Anu’s hair was shorter than her mother or sister’s style, but also significantly more curly and tangled. It resembled Jylan’s hair, but too short to be managed into a braid.

Once they were all fed fed, Jylan’s sister proceeded to bundle her children into sweaters, shoes, scarves, and many more pieces of clothing.

Two of the sailors from Samar’s ship, similarly swaddled in wool sweaters and scarves that could only partially obscure their great grins, showed up on the doorstep in the fresh morning light with the trunks from Vigil’s Keep and the bolt of wool fabric. Jylan formally asked his sister’s permission to stay in the house with them.

“What? What are you asking?” She repeated in a dumb voice, the door still open, the trunks still sitting in the muddy snow. Raveena was running circles around the trunks demanding to know if they were for her and if they had more food and new clothes and maybe a string of rubies inside: she would be disappointed with the reality. Tahir had found his way into the arms of one of the sailors who gave him a rough kiss on his soft cheek. “What do you think I’m going to say? _No?_ Bring that all in and hurry, you’re letting all the heat out. How much could one elf possibly bring with him!”

Samar finally woke up and, with a yawn, bade Jylan pay the sailors two coppers each for the errand and send them on their cheerful way. He now had ten coppers and one silver left in the purse at his hip, and this caught Ariyah’s attention at once.

“You have _money?_ ” She looked at him in outright shock.

“Yes,” he answered. “However, my means of acquiring more have expired. What I currently possess is all that I will have until I find new employment.”

“Andraste guide you to that. But my children are hungry, stranger, and their house is cold.”

“Quit calling him that!” Samar complained from around a mouthful of hot pie. He was ignored.

“When Samar is ready for the day, he and I will collect our pay from the _Lady Freeborn_. I believe we will then proceed to the market to see to the household’s immediate needs.”

“Your pay? Stranger you _cannot_ be a sailor.”

“No, I am not.”

“I said quit it with that!” Samar spoke up again, and this time was rewarded with attention from his sister. “He fixed all the ship’s glowstones and helped bring us in safely last night, so enough, Ariyah. He was promised some kind of pay by my Quartermaster so we’ll see what she scrounged up for him.”

“Just make sure you both _scrounge up_ enough to keep all these mouths full.” She told them shortly, but it was mostly for Samar. “I’m not telling you a word more about Rian until I know what I’m feeding my children this week.”

“Then we shall return promptly,” Jylan agreed.

Samar grumbled, but like the hound, was ignored.

While Samar ate and readied himself, Ariyah sent her children out of the house into the cold morning, keeping only the baby with her to sit on her hip. The children ignored Jylan outright and instead clamoured from their mother’s grip to hug or be picked up or kissed by Samar, who took each one up and then promptly dropped them out across the threshold with one instruction: _go play_. They were a whirl of excitement and complaints and cries, but were gone around the twisted lanes of the alienage alley before Jylan had finished counting them.

Dirthamen was attentive and excited, and gave an excited bark at Jylan as if he would consent to follow the children in their games. He did not.

“You may go.” Dirth scampered off ten feet, looked back and saw that Jylan was not coming, and sulked back into the house. Ariyah watched this interaction without speaking.

“Go play.” He repeated. The hound turned and whined after the children, but then sat down sullenly at Jylan’s feet. Very well, he would not go.

“Samar.” Ariyah spoke quietly, no longer running her hand over the abundance of fine wool unrolled on her table. “Why does he have a dog?”

“Ask him yourself,” their brother’s answer was stiff and moody. Samar had found the chest of his own clothes upstairs and was finally dressed properly for the weather: thick wool trousers, long sleeves, tunic and a hide vest, plus a cloak with thin shoulders and ratty hem, but warmer than the capelet from Rivain.

Ariyah did not ask him anything. Samar and Jylan left with Dirthamen and returned to the docks. The water was green and choppy and the wind cold and bright with flakes of sparkling snow.

Back aboard the ship Samar was greeted with a handshake and rough laugh about running off in the night, but was handed a pressed leather seal. There was much carrying on and friendly talk. Jylan was handed a smaller, less ornate piece of leather with a similar hard stamp made in it.

Before they could leave, the Captain called on him quickly.

“Ashera, yes?” The human asked him.

“Yes, Captain Hevelt. Your boatswain is my eldest brother.”

“You came with some fancy accompaniment, but did good by my crew. Can you read?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And write?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“What else can you do?”

“I received a full education from the Fereldan Circle of Magi before the war, my skills are wide and varied.”

“Wait, you’re a _mage?_ ” This caused a sudden quiet on the active dock.

“Not anymore, Captain Hevelt.” He explained, his eyes hovering on the Captain’s coat buttons. “I was considered troublesome within the Circle and my connection to magic was severed as a result. I am tranquil, and of no danger to anyone.”

The human hesitated for several moments. Samar was standing very close to Jylan but said nothing and did not touch him. The human reached a decision and brought something out from the same leather case he had withdrawn their payment seals from. It was a piece of parchment with a wax seal on the bottom, folded into thirds, and was handed to him.

“My Boatswain tells me you’ll be looking for work in Gwaren. If you choose to try your hand with our fleet, this letter ought to at least get you through the door.” It was a letter of recommendation, one Jylan would read later and not here.

“Thank you, Captain Hevelt.”

“Now off with you both, and don’t spend it all in one place!”

They took their seals to the Harbourmaster, where there was a crowd and a line which took considerable time to proceed through.

Samar was awarded fifty silver pieces. Jylan was given ten. His brother’s mood was significantly higher now than it had been when they left the house.

Sixty silver was a considerable sum of money. His brother led them to the market, and along the way he laughed and discussed at length the foodstuffs they would buy. Samar did not expect this shopping trip to come to less than seven silver. The number seemed excessive to him.

“So we’re not to buy _any meat_ , understood? The merchants can smell the silver in a sailor’s pocket and weigh and rip it out with a look, so we’ll get the meat in a few weeks when the ice is set and no one’s got any coin left except those of us who’re smart with it.” While his logic was sound, it overlooked a certain aspect.

“Samar, I am not a sailor.”

“Yeah, so?”

“I am tranquil, and possess a mabari war hound.”

“Your _point?_ ”

“My point is that mabari are the companions of noblemen, and the Formari are closely contracted only to those who can afford their abilities and materials.”

“I’m not following.”

“Then I shall pose a question: the merchants will fleece a sailor, but will they do the same to someone they presume to be a highly paid servant of a noble house, who also has previous experience in the acquisition of materials and workshop upkeep? Bartering was a core aspect of my employment, Samar.”

Samar stared at him for a long moment, green eyes running over Jylan’s face. His brother then broke into harsh, wheezing laughter, and proceeded to crouch down and quickly count out ten silver from his wages. It remained an excessive quantity of coin, but Jylan accepted it regardless.

“I- I’ll be over there. Just like, wave me over when you’re done.”

It went as expected.

“Move along, elf, you can’t afford this.”

“I do not recall suggesting that any funds would be my own.” They had come from Samar. “But these are small and of poor quality. If you are to sell them at all, it will not be at this price.”

“And what would you _suggest_ with money that isn’t _your own?_ ” He made his suggestion. He was countered. He bartered again. They agreed. When real silver appeared in his hand to be broken into the copper amount, the merchant’s voice became significantly more agreeable. He was not a sailor. He was not a labourer. He had money and it certainly must have come from somewhere. That they assumed he still maintained access to the coffers of a noble house was not his mistake.

The honeyed tone of one vendor carried to the next stall, who had overheard and was better prepared for him.

“Would this fine flesh not please your household, serrah?” Too expensive: Samar had stated no fresh meat.

“The veins are too pronounced and the sheen across the flesh speaks of rubbery texture. I will not subject myself to the cook’s displeasure by bringing this forward.” Ariyah would make loud and varied complaints if he spent too much money on something that was not worth the coin. “If your fresh stock is insufficient, what is smoked?”

“This _excellent_ -”

“It is too large, bring something else.” She brought him something else, it was bartered for and purchased.

He acquired, in varying amounts but quantities sufficient to feed a family of four children, perhaps four or five adults, an infant, and a mabari war hound for the next month: sacks of flour, salt, sugar, and dried beans. Quantities of potatoes, carrots, turnips, beets, and cabbage. Boxed onions, garlic, lard, cheese, eggs, and salted pork. A bottle of lye. Ten re-sealable glass jars. A crate of firewood. A bag of charcoal. A leg of mutton. A box of smoked fish. Fish oil. Bee’s wax. A bottle of wine. A small jar of honey was presented, without charge, by a flattering merchant who complimented the fine clasp on Jylan’s warm cloak, and was told it had been made far north in Amaranthine. Whatever was misconstrued from this information was sufficient to relinquish the honey.

He spent two silver and eighty-six copper. When another merchant offered to give him the wooden crates to carry it all for an even three silver, he declined as the crates were not worth such a sum. They settled for two silver and ninety copper. He stated he would return next month, and the vendors he had dealt with each smiled and said they would be waiting for him.

Jylan declined to have the goods delivered to his patron’s home, stating that there was sufficient help for such a task in the market itself. Samar mustered another two elves loitering in the district with a sled who jumped and were happy to load and drag the supplies back to-

“Uh, hey, where are we going?” One of them asked as the fine cobbled lanes began to break down into mud and rocks.

“ _Shh!_ Andraste’s tits, Shallah: keep your mouth shut.”

“How about this? Messer Seneschal, ser, are you lost? This isn’t the road to the noble-”

“Shallah for _Shartan’s Fucking Ears,_ shut up.”

“Boys,” Samar said in a low, steady voice, “Calm down. You know _exactly_ where we’re going.”

“No we d-” The other elf hit Shallah.

Before reaching the Alienage gate, Jylan paused their small party and made an arrangement with the two labourers. He would pay them three copper each for their help bringing the supplies to their house, or would allow them to take either the bottle of wine or the jar of honey.

The honey had been free and the wine had cost three copper. He did not say this.

“Is this seriously for the alienage?” Not-Shallah asked. “I want the honey.”

“No, I want the honey.”

“Fuck you, I asked first.”

They squabbled and began to shove each other. Samar let it continue for a few moments before calling the two back to the matter at hand: they were to be paid for their labour and were required to make a decision.

“Heating the wine and adding the honey would provide a sweet drink in the cold evening,” Jylan suggested, remembering the brew from Master Arainai’s rookery back in Vigil’s Keep. This compromise pleased both elves, and they took the wine and honey from the sled.

 “Did you idiots spend _all_ of it!” Ariyah cried when she saw them, and saw the boxes, and she seemed oddly distressed considering what had been provided.

“No.”

“He swindled them-!” Samar was beaming, dragging the crates into the house and hugging their sister with a laugh. “You’d have thought it was a thin winter market, look what he got- _look!_ ”

“I’m looking at it and I’m afraid to hear how much it all cost.”

The entire trip, including labour for transport, remained at two silver ninety copper. At this, Ariyah dropped her sour disposition and stared at him. She sank into her chair at the table, staring at him.

“How?”

“What is here is not of high or even quality. These are flawed goods, but they are plentiful.” The bone in the mutton leg was cracked, so its taste would be marred in places from the marrow. The potatoes were small and lumpy, with points of rot. The sugar had been exposed to water and would be very hard in places. The flour was coarse. The fish oil had suspensions in it. The bee’s wax was discoloured. The flaws continued but he did not explain them: it would taint their emotional experience of having a full larder.

As Ariyah went through the purchases she happened upon the charcoal, and criticized its presence.

“This was a waste of money: we have nothing to burn charcoal in.”

“Until the kitchen stove is repaired, I agree.”

She stared at him again.

“Oh, and I suppose you’re going to fix the water pump too, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

She did not believe him, but that did not affect him: he was tranquil and not susceptible to discouragement.

He confirmed that the Amaranthine wool was for her to use as she saw fit, likely to make clothing for her children. He stated as well that he was competent to make dyes for her, but that he lacked the necessary materials and would avoid purchasing such things until after the immediate needs of the house were seen to. She did not believe a word he said but this did not matter: he was tranquil and he did not have four children to look after, so the wool was hers.

“Ariyah, sister,” Samar said once the larder was completely filled, and Jylan had settled to read the letter of recommendation from Captain Hevelt. “Where the fuck is Rian?”

“With the whore.”

“ _Don’t_.” Jylan was capable of ignoring the conversation, but chose to ignore the letter. Ariyah flung one dark hand at the baby sitting on a mound of blankets and pillows. Dirthamen had been entertaining it by lifting one ear and then the other, earning amused coos and gurgles.

“Look at it!” She shouted, silencing the baby and alerting the hound. “Look what she did! Why Rian still tries, I don’t know, but I won’t have a whore in our mother’s house!”

“ _Where are they!?_ ” Samar shouted back at her, and the infant began to hiccup as a precursor to crying.

“In some shithole inn where she can ply her filthy trade and he can flitter away all the money we’re supposed to have, pretending her can bring her home!” Jylan was not looking at them but he was distinctly aware of when they both turned their attention to where he was sitting. “ _This one_ has done more for us in a day than the whore has since she started warming that brat in her belly. Maker Take Them Both, she’s probably put another one in her with Rian sitting in the next room!”

“You are _not_ going to talk about _my sister_ like-”

“She is _not_ your sister, she is not _my_ sister, she is _not-_ ” Jylan did something unwise.

“Hound, frighten.”

The hound either intuitively knew, or wisely inferred, that Jylan intended the command to startle his arguing siblings and not the distressed infant. He performed as Master Arainai had stated he would: the hound did not hesitate or question the command, but leapt forward between Samar and Ariyah. Yowling, snapping, growling: horrible noises that made his sister shriek and stumble back, and put a sharp jolt of fear through Samar who was too scared to reach for the knives still tucked into his clothes.

“Heel.” The noise stopped. “To me.” He stood and accurately anticipated that Dirthamen would seek to walk around behind him and stop, alert, next to his legs.

Ariyah was shocked and terrified, slumping onto the large bed next to the crying baby with visible shakes running through her.

“ _You-_ ” Samar, regrettably, was enraged. “-dead-eyed _son of a bitch!_ What the _fuck_ is wrong with you!”

“Heel,” Jylan repeated to Dirthamen, but offered no resistance when the fabric around his throat was gathered in Samar’s fists and he was abruptly, violently shaken. His feet slipped on the floor but he did not lose his footing entirely. Samar was very angry but Jylan was incapable of such a response, and he did not engage.

Dirthamen’s low, reverberating growl made Samar look down at the animal, then glare viciously at Jylan. His response was to avert his gaze completely and to not engage.

Samar shook him again in frustration and then shoved Jylan away from him. He stumbled and knocked into the table but did not fall. He righted himself and folded his hands in front of him properly, elbows tucked to his sides, and angled his gaze down. Had he been wearing a robe or hood, it would have covered his face.

“Fuck you!” A third, also failed, attempt to gain a rise from him was made, but Jylan did not engage. He waited, and Samar spoke to him again. “Why the _fuck_ did you do that?” This time the volume and intensity of his brother’s voice was reduced.

“To interrupt and redirect your mutual aggression.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Samar repeated. “Don’t you _ever_ do that again.” Jylan considered this suggestion thoroughly before responding.

“In order to establish this limitation, I require an equal pledge forbidding the use or threat of violence against members of this household.” Contrary to expectations, Samar’s shoulders rolled back and fell. He opened space by taking a step away from Jylan and the hound. In short: he was shocked, and recoiled.

“I… I wouldn’t do that anyways.”

“A full day has not yet passed since my arrival, Samar, and I am not convinced.” Twice already Ariyah and Samar had engaged in loud and aggressive conflict. Once she had already slapped him. Twice, Jylan had found the means to interrupt. “I do not mean to imply that you would do so willfully, but rather as an inappropriate response to mounting stress and forward aggression. A promise not to engage in such behaviour may not impose physical restraints upon you, but provide moral guidance should either of you falter.”

“Either of us?” His brother uttered.

“Your strength is superior to our sister’s, but that does not make hers negligible.” At this point, it became necessary to elaborate his own position: “I can think of no circumstances under which I would command the dog to harm you or anyone else. However, without a promise from each you not to violently engage with one another, I will not rule out the possibility of using Dirthamen’s commands to frighten you.”

Silence fell briefly, but then Ariyah spoke from the bed. She was holding the baby and had soothed his cries while calming herself down.

“I don’t want that thing in the house.” While her request was not unreasonable, it was already cold in Gwaren and the weather would continue to deteriorate.

“The hound’s rage was manufactured upon my command, not his own inclination. If you will agree to my terms then I will not permit him to behave that way again.”

“Fine.” She said, closing her eyes and cuddling the child to her shoulder. “I promise.”

“I swear not to do something I would never do anyways.” Samar echoed her in his own way, and Jylan found this acceptable.

“Thank you. Dirthamen will not be commanded to-”

He was cut off by violent, sudden hammering on their front door. Without sufficient time to react, the door was shoved open by Master Arainai. His blond hair was wind-blown about his face, his cloak ripped back over his shoulders suggesting he had been running quickly, the hilts of two fighting knives exposed at his flanks, the handles of many more shining in his vest. There was deep and cold anxiety cutting through his eyes and the curved black lines tattooed down his cheek were crinkled from tension and worry.

“Oh- _thank Andraste…_ ” He gasped, “I had feared much worse.” The tension spilled from him like a heavy burden. It ran off his shoulders and he stood up straighter, revealing between his breaths the obscured but undeniable presence of fatigue: he had run so quickly he had lost his breath.

“Who-?” Ariyah did not finish her statement.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here!” Samar demanded loudly. “You said you were leaving!”

“I did,” Arainai quipped with a smile, “And now I have returned. May we step outside?”

“Samar-?” Their sister asked, holding the baby close and taking a tense step away from the stranger in her doorway. Master Arainai noticed this at once and held a hand out to her, then tucked his arm in front of him to execute a regal bow.

“My apologies, Mistress, for so rudely accosting your front door.” He straightened up and looked at Jylan, his hand now pointing at the open way. “Speaking of which, are you not going to install a lock on it? Most unsafe. Ah, but I am ahead of myself again: please come outside.” As he neglected to introduce himself properly to Ariyah, Jylan fulfilled the duty himself.

“This is Master Arainai of Vigil’s Keep,” he explained for Ariyah’s benefit, his sister’s eyes anchoring on him as he spoke. “He came to Gwaren aboard the same ship as Samar and I. He serves the Arl of Amaranthine. I do not know why he is here.”

“Neither do I!” Samar thundered. “Fine, thank you for last night, now go handle your own business!”

“I shall,” Master Arainai stated, clicking his tongue at Samar. “But first, I bid you all to come _outside_ at once. It is very urgent and very important.”

His siblings’ curiosity could not resist this. Ariyah took up her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders, bringing the baby with her and ensuring he was swaddled in another scarf before leaving the house with Master Arainai. Jylan and Samar followed as well, with Dirthamen trotting easily behind him. Master Arainai took them around the corner of the house and the issue became immediately apparent: smoke.

Entirely too much smoke.

A vastly unnecessary quantity of smoke.

“Fuck- _fuck!_ Fuck!!” Smoke which smelled foul, like it had last night as the crate from the garbage heap had burned and the rest of it was slowly being devoured inside the house. The fire was inside, but the smoke was outside, and in the wrong place: at the street level, not up to waft through the chimney. “Andraste’s knotted knickers, is not _one fucking thing_ gonna go our way!? _”_

“Your house is falling down, ser,” Master Arainai incorrectly surmised.

“Our fucking house is falling down!” Samar unwisely echoed.

“The structure is not currently falling,” Jylan stated, correcting both of them. “But it is unstable.”

Samar was emotionally distressed. Ariyah stared silently, and leaned on the exterior wall of the house to stare at the brick form of the fireplace and chimney. She, like the hound and infant, had said nothing, but likely had a better grasp of the situation than their brother or Master Arainai, who had both misspoken and were currently repeating _‘Your-or-Our house is falling down’_ to each other, which was not the case.

The house had settled.

This was expected. Given the topography of the city and the alienage’s proximity to the docks and waterfront, the elven quarter was doubtless constructed atop sediment. In the fifteen years since the house had been rebuilt following the Blight, the foundations had settled.

However, it was expected that routine inspections of the house’s features would be carried out to monitor this settling. While there existed the possibility that these inspections had in fact occurred, clearly the surveyor had done nothing to mediate the stress upon the wood-frame structure’s chimney and fireplace.

The house had settled. The mortar between the bricks had stressed, cracked, and crumbled. It was cheap mortar made primarily of sand and very little clay, unless the colour of the clay in Gwaren was of significantly different colour than that in Amaranthine: not a wholly unreasonable possibility. Regardless, it had crumbled, the smoke was being drawn through and along with it was a significant quantity of heat. In places, the cracks and holes left by the stressed building blocks were large enough that Jylan could see the fire crackling on the other side. There was a pronounced fissure gushing smoke beginning from about six inches above the ground and snaking several feet up, to the first floor.

“From my vantage point, I thought perhaps the house itself was on fire.” Master Arainai abandoned some of his charm to speak seriously to them. Jylan was kneeling to inspect the damage at its lowest, widest point. Samar stopped swearing and held a hand over his eyes for several seconds, then went to gather his sister in his arms where she was holding her mouth, her gaze watery and distressed. The chimney was damaged and was also a main support structure for the house. If the fireplace collapsed, the house would do so as well.

His brother and Master Arainai were incorrect in their assertion that the house was currently falling. It was not falling, but the possibility that it might do so at some point in the near future was pronounced.

This was a tremendous amount of emotional stress for his sister to endure. They had passed through the first week of Harvestmere while sailing to Gwaren and therefore had officially entered the winter season. It would only grow colder from now until Drakonis, in four months’ time. Until the hearth was repaired it would be exceptionally difficult to heat the home, nevermind physically unsafe. It would not do to have five children and three adults under such an unstable roof.

Ariyah lost her composure and began to cry in front of Master Arainai, who adopted an immediate and forthcoming look of sympathy. Samar took her and the baby quickly into an embrace, holding her warmly and listening to her frets and quiet words.

“Samar.” Jylan required his brother’s attention, and received it. “Last night it was stated that one of us would escort our sister to the alienage midwife to tend her needs. I believe now is an appropriate time for that errand if you will commit to it. If Master Arainai will accompany me, I will locate an appropriate craftsman to address this matter while you are away.”

“I will happily assist, Compounder.” Master Arainai pledged himself with fingertips touching over his heart, an unwarranted salute.

“Maker…” Samar breathed, eyes closed for a moment before he looked at him again and nodded. “Just don’t let them take you for everything. But it’s gonna be expensive-”

“If the house is rendered uninhabitable for the duration of the repair, then I will inquire as to the additional costs of the stove and water pump.” Thus completing all three major repairs with minimal impact on the family and their needs. Alternative housing, on the other hand, would prove an expensive problem to cope with. “However, for the time being: I shall focus on the chimney.”

It was agreed that Ariyah needed to sit and to rest before going to the midwife, where she would certainly endure further distress but not in the presence of strange men whom she did not know. Jylan also returned to the house, and removed the folded quilt from on top of the locked Cherrywood box.

“Don’t take the whole box, just a few coins,” Master Arainai offered this unnecessary word of caution. “Is the money why you requested me?”

“Yes.” If he was to take out a significant quantity of money, then it would be prudent to bring along a significant guarantee of safety. As competent as Drithamen was at following orders, Jylan was tranquil: he was not adept at reading or understanding social situations. He was likely to require Master Arainai’s aid.

He still held seven silver and ten copper from Samar for the market trip they had made. He still held the ten silver from his pay for the glowstones. He still had one silver from Vigil’s keep. He still had ten copper pieces. Eighteen silver twenty copper was in the purse at his belt, a significant sum of money in its own right.

He added an additional twelve silver from the lock box, as well as three-

“It will not cost that much.” Master Arainai set a hand to his arm. It was gentle, but direct. His voice was very quiet. “I do not know if you intend to look for a human or elven company to repair the house, but I will caution you: if you show exponentially more coin than is necessary you will put your family at risk of hoodlums searching through the entire house while it is torn open to the cold, looking for more of it.”

Jylan replaced two of the fat gold coins, retaining one and showing it in his palm to Master Arainai. The older man indicated the silver. Jylan replaced ten silver pieces, leaving himself with ten silver and twenty copper and one gold sovereign.

The hand was removed.

 He locked the box again and this time: he took the rune-touched metal rod with him. He competently wove it onto the cord holding Amara’s amulet around his neck, and slid them back under his clothes.

“I admire your discretion.” Master Arainai offered his quiet approval, though Jylan was uncertain towards what ends he was working for. “What are your thoughts on who to hire?”

Jylan considered the question for several minutes, then answered. In the time I took him to ponder the matter Master Arainai acquired a chair and Ariyah had been given a cup of hot tea. His sister could not stand to look at the fire warming the house and had turned her back on it, leaning her elbow on the table and propping her head up with one hand.

“I am given to assume that a human company will be unwilling to work in the Alienage, and furthermore cost significantly more. However, an elven company may not have the means to perform the job to an appropriate standard, despite a stronger sense of community and the possibility of lower costs.” Master Arainai nodded and touched a hand to his chin, gazing about the bare walls and ceiling of the house before speaking.

“Are you certain that you want to, forgive the pun, _alienate_ yourself from your community by hiring humans?” He asked.

“It is not a concern of mine. The opinions of neighbours is a matter better put to my brother or sister.”

Neither of them had much to say beyond the fact that Rian would know for certain who to hire, whether from the alienage or beyond its crumbled walls. When asked where Rian was exactly, Ariyah did not know the name but thought the inn would be near either the market or the docks. When asked how long he had been out of the house for, she told them it had been just over a month since a final argument had sent Rian and Saya out on their own.

“If your brother values his job as highly as it has been stated,” Master Arainai mused aloud. “Then we should be able to find him at the Eighth Lion fleet’s company hall, no? Barring that, he would no doubt have gone to collect the Compounder’s wages from the Dwarven Merchant’s Guild.”

“Payments from Amaranthine are registered on the first of every month,” Jylan commented, intending to dismiss the notion of loitering by the merchant guild for Rian. “Haring will not begin for another sixteen days, and the weather will begin to deteriorate quickly from this point on through to Drakonis. Given the tense and potentially very stressful circumstances affecting the present relationship between Ariyah, Rian, and Samar, I would advise caution in searching him out as a primary contact with labourers in the alienage. I am given to understand that there is a leader in each elven quarter who should hold similar knowledge of its denizens.”

“Did you just talk about us like we aren’t in the room?” Samar asked him with a snide voice.

“I was speaking of you to Master Arainai and endeavoured for clarity. To say, ‘ _given the troubles between my sister, my brother, and my brother’_ would have confounded my meaning.”

“Yeah, but-”

“ _Please_ do not dive into a discussion of semantics, Samar: he is tranquil and he will win.”

“I thought I told you we’re _not_ on a first-name-”

“There are too many Master Asheras in this household for me to keep you straight without first names!” Arainai whined and-

“Is there a leader of the Gwaren alienage?” Jylan repeated himself more clearly this time.

Samar and Arainai continued to bicker and Ariyah was watching them. He approached her directly and repeated himself a third time.

“Is there a leader of the Gwaren alienage?” His abrupt proximity to her gave her an uncomfortable pause, but she heard him this time and provided an answer.

“Hahren Masao.” She was not comfortable speaking to him. He would ensure this interaction ended swiftly so as to spare her additional distress.

“Where is he usually found at this time of day?”

“If he’s not in the crooked stone house by the _Vhenadahl_ , then he will be in the little chantry beyond the alienage gate and to the north.”

“Thank you. Samar will take you to the midwife.” Jylan cast a look back for Dirthamen, who was up and ready to follow him already, and without further delay he left.

He had requested Master Arainai’s presence but the trend of the conversation was to traverse every possible topic and to explore them each at length, while simultaneously ignoring the primary issue: that the house was unsound and required immediate repair before the family was placed in excessive danger. As he was the only one with the sufficient funds to finance such repairs, his was the only presence actually required.

He left the house and walked the muddy lane with Dirthamen, his hood drawn up to warm his head and obscure his unsettling face from view. He happened upon very few people because it remained a brisk day just beyond the noon hour. There were some scattered women performing chores near the _Vhenadahl_ in the middle of the alienage, and he paused to observe the structures built close to the massive tree.

Nearly every one of them was crooked.

Only one was made of stone.

“Wait!” Master Arainai’s voice called out, and he paused under the tree’s bare branches. “I’m coming-! Hold, will you?”

He drew attention to them with his cries, but caught up to Jylan swiftly and came to a stop. His hood was down and much of his fine attire covered by the warm length of his cloak. That he was over-dressed with grey fur and heavy hide remained obvious, but it was unreasonable to expect either of them to shed functional clothing in the cold weather.

“Maker’s Breath, but you’re fast when you chose to be.”

“The building remains in a concerning state of disrepair, Master Arainai. I see no reason to loiter with that understanding in mind.”

“I agree- but, _Maker_.” He ended his oath with a laugh, and Jylan chose to continue forward.

He knocked at the door of the crooked stone house and waited until an old man answered it. He was thin-faced and his hair was very grey, wound behind his head with braided temples. His eyes and mouth were deeply creased, and his clothing was made of thin fabric profusely layered to provide him with warmth. Jylan did not look to the elf’s eyes, but was spoken over before he could say anything.

“Who in Andraste’s Name are you, stranger?” A reasonable demand, although strongly put by the elder’s rasping voice.

“I am Compounder Seco-” No. “…My apologies. I am Jeevan Ashera, brother of Boatswain Samar Ashera of the Gwaren Alienage. I have been directed to this home in search of the Alienage leader, Hahren Masao. Is this the correct residence?”

“It- yes? I am he.” He did not look at the Hahren’s face, and as the door remained open he spoke quickly.

“I have a matter of present urgency to discuss with you, if I may be permitted to enter your home. I will not request that you step out into the cold.”

The elder displayed open hesitation by the way he drew a deep breath and remained silent. When he spoke again it was not to Jylan.

“And you, stranger?” Master Arainai answered this time.

“Master Ashera saved my eyes from a terrible fate with his many skills, Hahren. Consider me nothing but his shadow. His business is lawful and good, but we are letting the warmth from your home.”

The Hahren consented to let them inside by stepping out of the way. Jylan entered the small dwelling first, stepping across dried woven rush mats crusted with dirt, the plastered walls yellowed and cracking in places. There was a large pelt resting on the floor in front of the warm and brightly crackling hearth, a small table hosting a few dishes of food laid out for the other occupant of the room.

This was an elven man between Jylan and Master Arainai’s age, sitting by the fire, perhaps in his early thirties. His hair was a dirty brown colour with a complexion close to Jylan’s own, announcing his diluted Rivaini heritage. The elf’s eyes were bloodshot and grey, his lips white and chapped in a fashion which suggested dehydration.

The expression he wore was of immediate interest, because his brows were knit together, jaw slack. He appeared deeply offended as well as disgusted.

The door was closed and Jylan turned to the Hahren. Dirthamen was behind him, with Master Arainai to his right where he had entered last.

“I apologize for interrupting your household. I would know your recommendation as Hahren for any able craftsmen or labourers within the alienage capable of making structural repairs to my sister’s house.”

“You… are certainly very forward.” The old man’s voice was weighed down with hesitation. Jylan had come at an inappropriate time but the sooner this matter could be resolved the sooner he would leave. “But we’re miles from discussing that. What did you just say your name was?”

“Jeevan Ashera,” he repeated. “I am a stranger in this place, and that is why I request your guidance. I would know of anyone who works in bricklaying or masonry and is in need of a contract. The foundations of my family’s house have settled and there are alarming cracks and holes in the chimney which require immediate attention before the full force of winter settles in.”

“Stranger, I asked you a simple question and I expect only a simple answer.” The Hahren sought to chastise him and Jylan did not understand why. “Jeevan? _Jeevan?_ There’s only one person in the alienage with that name and you, ser, are not him.”

“Wait,” the man by the fire said, and slowly lifted himself off the pelt and to his feet. “ _I_ know that name.”

Next to him, Jylan was aware of Master Arainai taking a knee and of his sudden proximity to Dirthamen. A brief glance down around the cowl of his hood led him to understand that Arainai was petting the dog’s shoulders and neck. Dirthamen’s ears were erect and the hound was focused entirely on the elf by the fire.

“Eli, sit down,” the Hahren told him.

“No, I _know_ that name.” Eli repeated, but when he stood it was not with much strength or grace: he appeared to be in a state of minor pain and discomfort. “And it’s obscure enough that I’m willing to believe he is who he says. Now my question is this, stranger: what the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

“Our ship arrived in Gwaren last night,” Jylan answered. Dirthamen did not like this elf. “I have returned to provide financial aid to my siblings and their children. This includes putting forward the necessary funds for repairs to-”

“And who the _fuck_ said they need you?” A statement so divorced from sense and awareness of the situation warranted a moment’s quiet from Jylan, simply to ensure he had heard the ludicrous words correctly.

“I arrived to a household bereft of food, firewood, social harmony, and structural stability. The situation speaks for itself, and I will correct it.”

The other elf crossed the room very quickly, eyes wide and lips snarling in open rage. The Hahren quickly caught the other man’s arm to stop his approach and Dirthamen opened his jaws with a feral growl.

“Eli! Enough.”

“I take care of them! I do _everything!_ ”

“I know you do.”

“ _That bitch_ threw out _every scrap of food_ just to fucking spite me!”

Dirthamen did not like this elf, and there was a dark undertone to Master Arainai’s voice when he spoke softly next to Jylan:

“I would trust the dog’s nose over any hungover lies. Conclude this swiftly, we will not find help here.” That seemed to be the case.

“Stranger,” the Hahren spoke and Jylan looked at his face this time. The Hahren and the enraged man had the same grey eyes, but there was fatigue in the elder’s gaze. “If you are who you say, then you know it is your _obligation_ as a man of faith and family to bring your sister back to sense. It speaks well of you to come here on the day of your arrival looking for the help to make necessary repairs to your family’s home, and that means I will trust you enough to tell you the truth: your sister has abandoned her obligations and her vows, and I need your help in correcting for her weakness. Your family’s future depends on it.”

Master Arainai took a breath but Jylan spoke before him.

“I do not understand your claim, Hahren, please elaborate.”

Hahren Masao sighed and gave a relieved smile which pulled at his aged face. He indicated the surly man next to him and bade Jylan step forward for an introduction. Dirthamen continued to growl, but stood beside Master Arainai who looked on with disapproval from the doorway.

“This is my nephew, Eli Masao. He is lawfully wed to your sister in a contract consummated in the name of Andraste Herself. She is the mother of his five children, and was once good to them.” Jylan permitted this statement to stand without correction for two reasons: he had only been in Gwaren for a day, and the Hahren was finally willing to speak with him. It was odd that the Hahren should say that Ariyah had five children, when she had made it abundantly clear that the infant was their sister Saya’s. “Eli, your brother-in-law, Jeevan.”

His arm was touched by the Hahren, who raised his hand until it became clear he was meant to shake Eli’s. He did so.

“Uncle, this man is an _apostate._ ” There was venom in his voice which echoed the raw vitriol in Dirthamen’s consistent growls. “Or did you come here thinking no one would remember that the Asheras’ third son was a _mage?_ ” Eli clutched very tightly at Jylan’s hand until pain began to build across his knuckles from the excessive show of strength. The Hahren recoiled with a sudden gasp of horror, but Jylan simply answered the quasi-truthful statement with a nod.

“My magic manifested during the Blight, and I was removed from the alienage by the Templars shortly after the Battle of Denerim. However, I am not an apostate as I am no longer considered a mage.” The Hahren had already indicated piety in his statements until this point. This was useful information. The pain in his hand reached bruising intensity. “I am tranquil: divorced from the Fade which is the realm of lies and illusions. My connection to magic was sealed with the brand upon my forehead, which also stripped me of my emotions. I am as the Holy Chantry bade me: passive, benign, and without the will or passions demons feast upon.”

“I’ve heard of such things,” the Hahren gasped, and then: “Eli, control yourself.” The crushing pain in his hand was released, and then the appendage itself. Jylan did not rub or draw attention to the point of relief. “In good faith, Master Ashera, take down your hood.”

Jylan did so, revealing the brand of Andraste’s sunburst on his forehead between the tangled fall of his black bangs. The Hahren was deeply moved by the pious symbol, and his fears settled with the revelation that Jylan’s uncaring, unchanging voice was the result of a Chantry-dedicated rite, not a conscious and derisive personality choice.

He was bade to sit across from Eli at the table, and the Hahren took the third side. Arainai and Dirthamen were abandoned at the wall, the assassin once again kneeling next to the hound and soothing the animal’s simmering rage with touches and strokes.

The Hahren laid out his position thoroughly, with stubborn and infrequent interjections from Ariyah’s estranged husband. While his uncle spoke, Eli ate from a bowl of millet with thick green leaves stewed in something sour from a plate set out in the middle. Jylan was not offered food, and doubted he would have accepted it anyways. The other elf smelled of sour ale, even from across the table.

Ariyah was the aggressor and Eli the wounded party. The Hahren insisted Jylan’s sister had abandoned her Chantry-anointed vows of loyalty and dedication to his nephew, disregarding the teachings of Andraste who had been wholly owned by the Maker as his bride. Instead of obediently serving and seeing to her husband’s needs as Andraste had turned away from Maferath to spread the Chant of Light, Ariyah insisted on taking her husband’s coin and managing it herself; she permitted her sea-faring brother to lodge in her husband’s house when he was in the city; she had permitted and offered refuge to a wayward sister accused and proven of prostitution; she was belligerent and disrespectful to her husband who worked hard for everything her children had.

“Children need a mother who respects their father the same way Andraste respected the Maker. No matter how dark the path may look, she must know that he will ultimately lead her where she is meant to be.”

The Hahren spoke actively, with great passion, misunderstanding or misquoting most of the pieces of the Chant of Light which he brought up. Passages Jylan had experienced numerous times within the Circle of Magi, in their correct forms. When Jylan inquired to know if the Hahren possessed his own copy of the Chant, he was told yes, but that the elder could not read the Justinian script: the formal letters of the Orlesian Empire.

Witnessing the heartfelt passion and deeply ingrained beliefs the old man held regarding marriage and its purposes, Jylan refrained from the ample opportunities for correction. He either did not know, or did not care to know, that Jylan and Samar and Rian each contributed to his sisters’ living together, not just the husband.

The husband who had nearly broken his wife’s hand. Who had beaten her face and body. Who had drunk his pay rather than bring his children food. Who had bruised and battered his young son for alleged disrespect. The Hahren made a throw-away and deeply flawed comment that Ariyah consistently lied and blamed her pitiless husband for abuses committed by Jylan’s faithless brothers.

He did not comment that Rian had been out of the house for the better part of a month already. He did not comment that Samar had been abroad on contract with the _Lady Freeborn_ since the summer. It was impossible for Ariyah to have acquired her injuries from anyone else.

He did not inquire after the previous instances of Ariyah abandoning her husband: such an encounter had been implied by Samar back in Amaranthine when he had boasted _‘I ran off Ariyah’s drunk’_ , or something to that immediate effect.

The Hahren was operating under excessive and deeply costly delusions. Jylan did not counter them.

“Your name is Eli?”

“Yes,” the belligerent husband answered.

“Eli is your standard form of address, between family?”

“They should have used that brand to clean your ears out as well. _Yes_.”

“I request your pardon then. I am tranquil, and do not easily absorb new information.” False: Dirthamen did not easily absorb new information because he was an animal. That he knew the abusive drunk’s scent was without question. That he knew the name attached to the stink was not so certain. “On this note, I must request time to process and understand what you have told me, _Hahren,_ while simultaneously asking you to recall my original purpose in interrupting your meal. Do you know any skilled and available craftsmen within the alienage?”

“You needed masons and stone-workers, yes? The Maker Provides as He Sees Fit, and He has blessed us with this. I know several good men for the job, Master Ashera, as well as where you can find them within the city and the alienage itself.”

What the Hahren offered, he provided. Jylan did not need to hear it repeated twice, but did not feel exasperation or frustration with listening to it four times. The old man was acting in consideration for his statement about not picking things up quickly.

“Thank you, Hahren.” He stood up from the table and replaced his hood. “I shall consider all you have told me, and direct myself to the workmen suggested. Maker Go With You, ser.”

“But wait! Before you go…” The old man stood up, breathless and excited. He bade the foul-smelling brute to stand, and made them approach one another as they had to shake hands.

“Eli and Jeevan, you are brothers by law. As your Hahren I bid you to begin the healing process: embrace.”

Jylan did so, and did not want to stab Warden Velanna’s dagger through Eli Masao’s exposed back.

He should have. Specifically: he should have both wanted to do so and performed the act itself. But he did not. He should have desired the death of his sister’s abuser.

But he was tranquil.

So he did not.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BUT I SURE AS HELL HOPE HE WILL


	29. The Remains of the Day

 

Master Arainai was displeased with him for the rest of the day. That Jylan had consented to hear out the Hahren’s position, beliefs, and loyalties as they were set contrary to those of Jylan’s sister had deeply offended the assassin.

“What he said is garbage, every word of it.” They traversed part of the city, both of them strangers to the path of the roads and connections between quarters. Dirthamen’s mood was improved by the distance placed between the hound and the sour stink of Ariyah’s estranged husband, Master Arainai’s was not. “I cannot stomach the fact that you embraced him.”

“One of the noticeably few benefits of my status is an immunity to repulsion and disgust in the face of moral failings and inadequacy.”

“But you _admit_ that both uncle and nephew are sickening, yes? You can see that much, I am certain.”

“I am not sickened, but I am cognizant of their harmful views and can readily confirm that their disposition carries significant threat towards my sister.” The repeated assertion that Ariyah’s children were primarily her husband’s, not a shared arrangement or one which respected that she provided the vast majority of all physical and emotional care for them, was of greatest priority to him. Any threat or coercion involving his sister’s children would cause insurmountable emotional upset in her, likely the kind that she would not easily recover from. That Ariyah felt terrorized by the Hahren’s nephew had been clear even in the middle of last night, and it was only more easily understood by the light of day.

But the Hahren and his son were people. They were complicated and unpredictable. The failings of the house and its compromised structure: these were concrete and far more easily dealt with.

Master Arainai accompanied him throughout the city. They found the crew of elven labourers recommended by the Hahren at work in the city’s crafter’s ward, rebuilding an oven and forge for a small guild of ferriers. Master Arainai caught the attention of a teenaged elf scurrying about the worksite by asking him a simple question: who pays you?

The answer was an older elven man with heavily worn hands and strong body. He had little time for them and said that without the presence of silver, he had no interest in speaking to them. Jylan showed the gold coin.

The foreman now had time for them.

The foreman brought them to a human man who shared a long look with the elf, and then spoke quickly and to the point with Jylan. The nature of the job, its location, and the fact that he had money were all discussed, with Master Arainai’s shadowing presence. Jylan did not consent to reveal the gold a second time, but assured the man that yes, he possessed the money to pay the labourers, the materials, and whatever associated fees were necessary.

The foreman accompanied them back to the Alienage and to the house where the chimney was still shattered and the smoke weeping in grey wisps into the cold air.

The foreman gave him a reasonable estimate: thirty silver and a fortnight of labour.

“A fortnight is a long time to be without a warm home,” was Master Arainai’s only comment.

Jylan inquired as to what it would cost to repair and rebuild the stone in under a week. The foreman did not answer immediately, but his pause was not from fear or confusion: he was considering the matter thoroughly.

“You can afford it, but then nothing else all winter, son.”

“That is for my family and I to decide, ser. What is the estimate?”

Forty-five silver. Master Arainai took a deep, uneasy breath at the quote but Jylan was tranquil: he was not shocked.

“I have further inquiries, if you will step into the house.”

The foreman came with them. Several children were crowded into the living room, not all of them were Ariyah’s: Sanjay was the first one Jylan recognized properly, then Raveena who jumped to her feet and pointed at Dirthamen in delight, explaining to the other children that the hound belonged to her now, not her siblings. This caused a fight between Raveena and Sanjay, which Tahir escaped by picking himself up off the floor, and throwing his hands up at Master Arainai: an immediate request to be carried, which the assassin swiftly fulfilled.

The children, now minus Tahir, were eating a large loaf of bread drizzled with honey. Jylan did not know where they had acquired it, but the foreman merely laughed affectionately and waved the children back to their meal. One of the children, an unfamiliar boy, called the foreman _babala_ : grandfather. Dirthamen, with a dismissive gesture from Jylan, trotted to the children who laughed and chattered with great delight as the dog dropped onto the dirty floor next to them, basking in attention and touches.

Jylan showed the man the water pump, and he knelt to examine the burst pipe and the floor it tunnelled down through. He hummed and hawed and pulled a few tools from his belt: an iron weight and long length of twine were tied together and then lowered from the sink drain until the line stopped, then it was extracted: the weight was wet and the water was clean when brushed on a sleeve.

“We need to break up the floor and cut away the broken bits before replacing them. This is a two-man job and not nearly as hard as the chimney, at least not unless the pipe is ruined all the way down.” The estimate was another fifteen silver; nearly twice Jylan’s previous monthly wage at Vigil’s Keep. However, for the cost of Samar and Jylan’s combined pay the family would have a structurally safe house, significantly warmer than it was now, with their own water access.

Additionally, as had been the case with the food purchases that morning, the money would not come from Samar.

“Very well.” He agreed. “Communicate our agreement to your employer. I am willing to pay ten silver up-front, thirty upon completion of the chimney, and twenty for the pipe and pump: for a total of sixty silver pieces.”

“I… I will do that, stranger. I’ll bring a crew back here tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, ser.” Jylan saw him to the door just as Samar and Ariyah were making their return from the midwife.

“It’s all set up?” Samar asked him. Their sister was very frail and clearly exhausted, her eyes red from crying. The children noticed her at once and broke away from their friends to run up and hug her, abandoning Dirthamen who looked up in surprise from the sudden lack of scratches and pets. Tahir abruptly squirmed in Master Arainai’s arms and was placed back on his feet to join the scramble for attention. “How much did it cost you?”

“The matter is settled,” was his only answer. “Samar, where is the wash-bin?”

“The what? Jeevan, how much are the-?”

“There are washed sheets still hanging against the wall behind me, I would know where the tub or bin they were scrubbed in can be found.”

“It’s outside.” Ariyah answered for their brother, her voice broken up and weak. She was kneeling on the dirty floor and had both arms wrapped close and tight around young Anu, Saya’s baby asleep on her back where he was swaddled tightly in a sling. “Why?”

“Thank you.”

Jylan went outside and fetched the bin easily. It was half a barrel, cut lengthwise with two fitted wooden pieces which let it rest on its side. He brought this inside, then found the bucket he had used that morning to fetch Ariyah water for tea and other tasks, and left.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Master Arainai asked him as he ventured to the well, fetched water, and brought it back to the house.

“I am working.”

“But-? Have you not done _enough_ for your first day? You’ve walked half the city- you must be tired by now.”

“I am well-rested from the voyage.” It had been many days of unoccupied time.

Jylan returned to the house and filled the water jugs in the kitchen, then went for a second bucket of water. This he used a portion of to wet the inside of his sister’s largest pot, which he then scrubbed with a handful of coarse white soap to remove the residue of a meal she had not had the time to clear away. More water rinsed the pot, the rest of the water went into it, and as he was uncertain of the integrity of the hook over the burning fire, he rested it on the hearthstones to heat far more slowly than was ideal.

A third trip to the well brought about a sense of fatigue. He was used to repeatedly filling and emptying containers of water in the workshop, but the pump had been no more than seven paces from the hearth: this was a walk of nearly a minute in either direction.

“We _have_ children,” Ariyah stated in her broken voice upon his return, and Jylan had caught the attention of said children with his walking about. “Sanjay, go fetch more water for your uncle.”

Jylan topped up the water in the pot, then poured the rest into the tub. He handed the bucket to his nephew, who gave him a disgusted look but did as his mother had asked.

He found more of the soap and confirmed by the smell and texture that it was meant for linens, but it was of poor quality and crumbled too easily in his hand. He poured a handful into the cold water, then went upstairs.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Samar echoed this time, standing in the door to Ariyah’s bedroom where the violently messed and tossed blankets remained untouched from yesterday. Untouched until now, as he stripped the bed completely.

“This is our sister’s room, is it not?”

“ _Yes?_ ”

“This is where he attacked her?”

Samar balked at him, horror touching his eyes before he held a hand out to stop him.

“You- you don’t have to do that. We can clean it up in a few days, not-”

“I am not disturbed by this topic, Samar: you easily forget the upset which resulted in the termination of my employment.” The accusations of rape which had nearly killed An’eth.

“I’ve forgotten nothing.” His brother’s voice was heavy, but quiet. “Why do you think I _don’t_ want you dealing with this?”

“I do not know. I am tranquil and I am not upset: you are not tranquil and you are very upset, and Ariyah’s distress outstrips yours by a fair margin. I will remove all evidence and signs of his aggression if I must burn these blankets to remove his stink from them.” The entire room smelled of stale drink. There were stains and dried places on the blankets. They held no intimate odor but the act was a full day gone from them.

Jylan had been Liaison to the Templars of Kinloch Hold: it had not been uncommon for him to strip the same beds he had been used in before leaving. This task was functionally no different.

He stripped the bed and took the offensive fabrics downstairs, where he placed as many as would fit in the tub into the shallow pool of cold water. He fetched the gently steaming pot of water from the hearth and poured it over them. Most of the children had departed the house due to his odd behaviour, so he was not in their way as Sanjay returned with the full bucket, which Jylan poured into the pot and replaced by the heat.

He stoked the fire, stripped off his cloak for the first time in several days, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

“Why are you doing laundry?” Ariyah asked him quietly as he knelt and proceeded to wring and mix the soapy water with the soiled blankets. The lye stung, but such was to be expected of poor quality soap.

“Because I am capable of doing so.”

Master Arainai remained in the house and was currently in the root cellar looking over the collected goods from that morning. He and Samar gathered a small basket of vegetables and sat down at the table with modest paring knives, cutting away rotted or discoloured features, and peeling away skins. Ariyah was bid to rest and obeyed without comment, crawling onto the large bed beside the fire and laying down with Saya’s baby in the circle of one arm.

Raveena vanished upstairs and returned with a carved wooden comb, quickly unbraiding her mother’s hair and brushing it out. She sat with her legs crossed on the bed and talked and talked of games and children and Dirthamen and the snow and the crumbled walls and who had said what to whom. Ariyah answered her daughter with soft sounds and a few words, but did not move from the bed.

Anu was sitting beside the fire with Dirthamen, and was exploring the hound’s jowls with her hands. Dirthamen gave no indication that anything at all was happening as the girl’s small hands lifted his thick black lips and exposed his powerful jaws and dangerous teeth. His muzzle was large enough compared to her small body that he could nose into her tummy and she fell over his head with a delighted laugh.

Tahir climbed into Samar’s lap as he peeled vegetables, and was quiet enough to suggest he fell asleep.

Sanjay had left with the other children and did not return until Jylan had finished scrubbing, rinsing, and wringing the bedding from upstairs. His back and knees and arms all hurt from the labour, but it was complete. The boy, angry and glaring at Jylan the entire time, took up the same bucket as before and filled it from the dirty wash water, then carried the burden outside where he splashed it into the lane. He made several trips until the tub was light enough for Jylan to push and lift over the threshold and finish dumping it out.

Master Arainai had filled the pot with the cut up vegetables and then found the shoulder of venison from Vigil’s Keep: the gift from the grateful wife of an injured and treated tradesman. The thick red meat had aged but not spoiled during the voyage, and Arainai cubed it with a sharp knife before tossing the strips and chunks into the bubbling water.

“Shit, I forgot.” Samar immediately stood and went upstairs, returning a few moments later with his canvas bag from the ship. He set it down on the table and reached inside, pulling out a woven sack of something Jylan first mistook for salt, then realized it was something he could not remember the name of.

Tiny dry particles of something. They were long and white and hissed when they spilled over each other. They were very small and liable to become lost in the rushes and dirt of the floor if they fell. Samar was very proud of himself for bringing this sack home with him: what cost fifty bits in Gwaren, he explained, was sold for only three along the shores of Rivain.

Master Arainai was intrigued and then delighted by the bag and its contents.

“I did not think there was a household in all of Fereldan who knew how to make this!” He purred with delight. “I once wasted good coin on making a dear friend of mine try it, cooked with onions and lentils and good fish skin. You cannot imagine my delight when even his Warden nature could not compel him to eat more than a few bites before telling me the rest was mine.”

“I cannot remember the name,” Jylan stated as Samar scooped two handfuls into the simmering pot. It added a starchy smell to the soup which was distinct, and yet remained beyond him to name.

“ _Rice_.”

Other items were extracted from Samar’s bag: a pouch of seven pearly shark teeth for Sanjay, who brightened up and hugged his uncle tightly. A pendant made from a rounded piece of green turtle shell on a red string, for Raveena, who said it was much prettier than anything else in the world. Tahir laughed for the first time in Jylan’s presence when he was given a wooden snake with a notched body that permitted the soft wood to flex and bend, mimicking a serpent’s slither. Anu received a woven doll with a black braid she immediately wrapped up in her arms and named ‘ _baby, my baby_ ’ _._

He removed a ceramic jar from inside a balled-up set of socks and twisted the lid off, bidding each child one after the other to use their finger and take a dab of the substance inside. It must have been sweet, because they clamoured for it.

“Not before dinner, Samar.” Ariyah’s voice was quiet and low from the bed. He wrinkled his nose at her.

“A taste won’t spoil anything,” he insisted, and then offered the jar to Arainai, who approached curiously and sniffed it.

“Maker but _that_ takes me back to my boyhood,” he hummed, and when Samar didn’t pull the offering away, the assassin dipped just the tip of his pinky finger into it with a quiet thanks.

“Jeevan?”

“I do not know what it is.”

“C’mere and find out then.” He approached and was handed the jar in its entirety. Inside the white jar was a thick black substance which smelled very strongly and sweetly of something almost familiar to him. It smelled similar to anise, or to fennel, but was neither of these things. He did not know it. He once had, but the memory was gone.

“Molasses, in the style of Llomerynn where we put into port for a few days.”

“The beets and cane necessary to make this do not grow south of Antiva,” he stated.

“Yeah, I know, which is why I bought it in _Llomerynn_. Do you want some or not?”

“I will abstain, but thank you.”

“But you like sweet things.”

“It is a mild preference with no emotional investment or reward. The children and yourself take comfort in the flavour that I will not find: it would be a waste.”

His brother appeared hurt by this assertion but Jylan did not understand why: molasses was an imported item. That Samar had acquired it cheaply in the city of production did not change the fact that such luxuries would be wasted on him.

“Well you’re gonna _hate_ what I’m about to do next.” Samar stood up and walked to the semi-functional kitchen, rifling through the cupboards before he retrieved the decorated glass jars containing the family’s spices. Now the presence of such things made sense in the poor household: if Samar could purchase cinnamon and cloves and pepper and other substances cheaply, and in small quantities so as to avoid accusations of smuggling, then the family could benefit immensely.

Samar brought the jars to the fire, not the table. There, he added spices from the jars to the boiling pot: an entire spoonful of turmeric, significantly less of a bright orange powder, a pinch of something red, another spoonful of something black and grainy.

Within moments, the colour, consistency, and aroma of the pot had changed considerably, and his brother stirred the meal a few times before setting a lid over it and standing up, looking at Ariyah’s place on the bed. All that was properly visible was one eye, the dark fold of her ear, and the curtain of black once again being combed out by Raveena.

“Well?”

“Not enough turmeric,” she told him in a drawn voice, then closed her eyes. “But don’t waste the new stock. The meat will make up for it.”

“Will she be well enough to eat?” Arainai asked softly, and Samar took a deep, steady breath.

“The midwife gave her something. We have to go back tomorrow.”

Samar refilled the jars of spices with what he had purchased in Antiva and Rivain. Master Arainai lit a long-stem pipe and puffed at it slowly, seating himself by the fire and using Dirthamen’s delight at Tahir and Anu’s attention on his belly to begin speaking to the children. Soon he was recalling a story of the Fereldan Ash Warriors who had been the first to brave the Kocari Wilds and seek out news of the chaos that had poisoned and scattered the Chasind folk far south of them. The brave warriors bonded with their hounds like no one else, and they had sought out the truth of the Fifth Blight before even the Grey Wardens had arrived to confirm it and muster their nation to defend itself.

He told the tale of a loyal hound who bit and killed the monster that threw down his companion, and then of the terrible fever and pains that had engulfed it, and then of the willful mage who had hunted through the wilds for the flowers to ease its pain and give the hound the chance to fight again by his new friend’s side.

As Master Arainai told the tale of Tagar, the Hero of Ferelden’s mabari, Jylan acquired his sister’s broom and-

“ _Stop_ ,” Samar scolded him quietly before the kitchen floor was fully cleared. “Have some tea, sit and listen to the story. _Stop working_.”

“That is not necessary.” The floor was very dirty. The rushes were too dry to serve a purpose any longer. As the season may not permit them to be replaced, they would be better off without the dead and dried leaves cluttering the floor and dirtying their clothes.

“Jeevan, _thank you_ , but enough.”

“I will not be able to repeat my duplicity with the market vendors if my clothing deteriorates from many nights spent on such a floor. Our sister is ill; both you and her are distressed; Master Arainai does not live here and the children are too young: I will perform the task myself.”

“Who said you were sleeping on the floor again?” Samar’s question detracted from the current topic but that did not prevent Jylan from answering him.

“It is where I slept last night.”

“Last night was a mess and we weren’t even here for all of it. I’m sorry about it, but no: you’ll either sleep in the big bed or you can take mine upstairs.”

“The large bed would not be appropriate. I am not known in this house.” Sleeping in the large bed, presumably also where the children and Ariyah would also sleep, was not an option. It would disturb the children and cause their mother further distress. “The upstairs room is yours. Until a brazier can be acquired the bedrooms upstairs will be quite cold, but with Dirthamen’s presence and the early nature of the season it should be tolerable for you.”

“I was _wondering_ about that,” his brother grumbled, and then left to hunt through the house, both inside and out. He returned with a sour expression and a dented grate made of thin metal bars: a piece of what had once been a brazier.

“I don’t wanna know what happened and I’m not gonna ask where the rest of it went,” he grumbled, “But if we keep it over one of the iron pots it’ll hold charcoal for you. Take my room, I’ll sleep down here tonight.”

Dinner cooked for nearly an hour before the house was filled with the warm and richly aromatic smell. The children took very small portions, only a spoonful or two each, with the understanding that if they finished what was in their bowls they would be granted another helping. Master Arainai declined to eat but was happy to take a warm cup of tea with his pipe, and Ariyah stirred only very briefly from the bed to say that the infant required food.

Samar took the small, now distressed child from their sister. He fed it a small portion of the vegetables from the pot, rinsed with water to sufficiently cool them before they were then mashed. After feeding the child, Samar announced that the infant stank and required a bath, which Jylan left the house to fetch the water for as it was now too dark to expect Sanjay to perform the chore. Upon his return and the water’s placement in a fresh pot by the fire, he softened a spoonful of lard against the side of a bowl for application to the infant’s skin after Samar uncomfortably and with many complaints bathed their unhappy nephew.

Jylan had never held an infant in such a compromising circumstance before and did not volunteer for this duty. Master Arainai heaped a considerable amount of food from the pot into a bowl and put it in front of Jylan, insisting that he eat.

It was a richly aromatic meal. The rice had made the food congeal and grow thick, holding in the heat. It was pale yellow in colour with flecks of red and black, the vegetables and meat tossed in the fragrant sauce. After taking the heat into consideration, Jylan took a modest bite. The flavours were considerably more than he had been able to smell and-

He coughed.

Coughed it out.

Hot. Too hot. Pain. It hurt. Painful. Not good.

Seared and stung his tongue, burned the roof of his mouth, flooded his sinuses and threatened his eyes with burning and clogged his throat with shredding pain. Tiny scratches that ripped open his mouth.

Inedible. Not safe. Painful. _Not good_.

He coughed and spat the food into his hand, where it did not burn and did not hurt and did not irritate his skin. He had startled the children, who were now silent, and both Samar and Ariyah were staring at him, their sister propped up on her arms so she could see him properly.

“Oh…” Master Arainai was the only one to comment, and repeated himself. “Oh! Let me try that.”

The assassin took one of the discarded spoons on the table and stuck the handle into Jylan’s bowl, which he pushed away from his place. His eyes were watering, his nose itched, his mouth felt filled with hot sand. Master Arainai took a small scoop on the handle of the spoon and ate it, chewing quickly before he stopped and his eyes widened in modest surprise. He made a satisfied noise of understanding and settled back in his seat, wagging the spoon at Samar.

“That was not very considerate of you, Master Ashera.” Samar squawked in offense at the accusation, but the spoon kept wagging. “You experienced the food at Vigil’s Keep. But I suppose I should also have been more vigilant: those _were_ chilly flakes you added, no?”

“Wait you’re blaming it on the _spice?”_

“What else would you expect? For myself, this is quite the nice heat and I have missed it.”

“He’s Rivaini! The kids ate it no problem!” Jylan swallowed the thick saliva in his mouth. This was a mistake which spread the grainy charge from his mouth to his throat.

“I am not hungry.” His voice scratched and threatened to break into another cough. He resisted and was successful. If he had once possessed an inborn immunity to the heat and pain of Rivaini food, it had been eliminated by his time in the Circle and Guildhall. “Thank you, Samar.” He stood to return the uneaten portion to the pot, but was stopped by his brother who had the fussy human child cuddled to his shoulder.

“No, you need to _eat_.”

“I am not hungry, merely fatigued.”

“We’ve got plenty of food, Jeevan. We’ll boil up a few eggs for you, or some more potatoes?”

“There is sufficient food for the children and yourselves,” he responded. “It would be wasteful to prepare more simply to accommodate for one person, or to alter what has been made for the family as a whole. I will prepare my own food tomorrow.” Samar’s gaze wavered with immediate distress, but he was interrupted before he could plead.

“Samar,” Ariyah’s weak voice called between them. She was still propped up on the bed, watching them. “Rinse it: like for the baby. It won’t taste good but the spices are already used: the waste is in someone going to bed hungry after spending all his coin on food he can’t eat.”

“I can do that,” Samar agreed, then looked at Jylan. “You can do that. Here, take him and I’ll do that.”

“No-” The infant was once again wrongly placed in his hands. Only his hands. He held the infant under both his soft arms, his legs hanging under him, the blanket wound around his freshly oiled skin slipping off where Samar had only folded, not pinned it. The child’s body was very warm and very soft and very unstable and not properly supported by him as he was not certain of how to go about doing so: if he performed wrongly then he could snap his nephew’s pliant neck, or drop him, resulting in heinous trauma or immediate death. “Samar, take it back.”

“Just give me a sec,” No.

“It will fall, Samar.”

“Hold him _properly_ then.”

As he had done last night, Jylan lowered himself to the floor, holding the infant whose face was twisting in thorough displeasure.

Sanjay was also displeased, and got down off his chair to confront Jylan directly.

“That’s not how you hold the baby,” the eight-year-old child told him.

“I have not been in the presence of an infant since I was a child like yourself. You may take him from me.”

Sanjay bent down and did so, twisting his arms around the infant and bracing his cousin’s weight against his body and shoulder. He walked away from the table toward the fire, and sat down on the dirty rushes, Dirthamen choosing to approach the boy next and lay down beside him, watching Sanjay attempt to replace the swaddling. Jylan stood and was presented with the same bowl containing significantly less food than before: four cubes of meat and several over-boiled chunks of onion, potato, and carrot were at the bottom, a scarce ten or so grains of rice sticking to the sides of the bowl.

He consumed it and tranquility was no barrier to the displeasing quality. The flavour was gone from all but the venison, which was cold and tough. The pain lingered with less intensity but a persistent sting throughout his mouth and down his throat. The vegetables were overcooked and now cold. The rice was reminiscent of weevils, and he endeavoured to swallow the portion quickly, without subjecting himself to much chewing. Chewing the meat unlocked more of the heat that had paralyzed him before.

It was meat, fresh meat, and thus expensive. It had been ruined by the water which had rinsed away the spice. He was hungry but in the morning there would be more food, and in the meantime: Dirthamen had not eaten all day that Jylan had seen.

He ate the vegetables and offered the chunks of venison to Dirthamen, who was happy and eager to devour what remained.

Samar offered repeated and unnecessary apologies to him as Jylan collected a small iron pot and four pieces of charcoal from the full pantry. Master Arainai excused himself quietly, paying respects to Ariyah on the bed before leaving through the thin front door. He promised to return in the morning when the workmen did. Samar did not repeat his inquiry as to the cost of the repairs.

Jylan stoked the fire as his brother helped Ariyah to sit up and eat her own dinner, and used a pair of iron tongs to ignite one of the charcoal blocks for the make-shift brazier, and collected his cloak from where he had removed it to launder the bedding. He was up the first three steps when he was stopped.

“Goodnight, uncle!” He was stopped because the voice had come from very close behind him, and when he turned with the brazier in his hands he saw Raveena standing at the base of the stairs with a wide, but forced, grin on her face. She was not speaking to Samar, she was speaking to him.

He nodded to her.

“Goodnight.” And he proceeded up the-

“ _Jeevan!_ ”

He proceeded back down the stairs. It had not occurred to him to request permission to leave the room as he had during his time within the Circle, the Guildhall, and occasionally at Vigil’s Keep. Samar gestured with both hands down to Raveena, who had retreated to his presence and was holding the hem of Samar’s tunic.

“She’s a _kid_.” His brother emphasized.

“I am aware of that.”

“Then _hug her_ when she says goodnight to you.” Oh. He was expected to display affection to the children. This did not seem wise.

Jylan placed the burning brazier on the stone floor, aware that it was heating up. He approached his brother so as to speak in a lowered tone out of respect for Ariyah’s poor health.

“You should not feel obligated to encourage the children to alter their behaviour around-” Samar sighed, crouched, took Raveena under both arms, straightened his legs and threw her.

Samar threw a four-year-old girl. At Jylan. His brother threw their niece at him.

“Again! Again!”

That he caught her in his arms and stumbled heavily before ensuring the child was not injured by this event was irrelevant: he had just had a small child thrown at him. Raveena kicked and laughed and he put her down, only to have her run to Samar who picked her up again-

“Do not throw her-”

“Then learn to give hugs so I won’t have to.” Samar was stronger than him and able to hold Raveena up away from his chest, arms bent, and kissed her cheek roughly before man-handling the girl and turning her around to face Jylan. She was grinning and kicking her feet at the open air under her, and reached out for him excitedly.

To prevent Samar from throwing their niece at him again, Jylan did not retreat from this gesture. Raveena was placed on him, snaking her arms tight around his shoulders and neck and then kicking her legs around his torso until her weight found his hips and braced there. She was not as soft as the infant, was considerably firmer and through the layers of clothes she was thin and birdlike. She giggled and kissed his cheek and hugged him firmly again, then became distracted by Dirthamen who was sitting and panting happily next to Jylan.

“Down now, please: I wanna pet him.” Jylan took a knee and Raveena climbed off of him.

Tahir began to cry and moan loudly, and scampered across the dirty floor to Jylan, who was held in his crouch by Samar’s firm hand on his shoulder.

“You are _going_ to get used to this,” his brother insisted, and Tahir reached up and pulled on Jylan’s shoulders and the collar of his shirt until he consented to embrace the child. Like his sister, Tahir kicked his knees up and held himself wholly by his own strength and Jylan’s uncertain hold. The crying stopped. Tahir did not let go. Samar stopped holding him down.

He stood up and Tahir swung one arm away and around to Samar, fully trusting Jylan not to drop him as he was passed from one uncle to the other.

Anu was asleep. Sanjay would have nothing to do with him: too angry over the fact that Dirthamen had left him to accompany Jylan again. Ariyah was either asleep beside her daughter, or too fatigued to say anything or move on the bed.

Samar insisted on embracing him, and then kissing him once on either cheek before bidding him goodnight.

“We’ll find Rian in the morning, okay?”

“I believe that would be wise, yes.”

Jylan took Dirthamen and the charcoal upstairs. The room was very cold, the bedding had not been shaken or beaten for many months. He did not have fresh clothing available because it remained packed up in the trunks downstairs, trunks which would just barely fit into this room if he was able to move the bed further into the corner. He spread his cloak over the blankets and quilt, removed his boots, unbraided his hair, and crawled fully clothed into bed.

Dirthamen sat by the bed in the dark for several seconds, until Jylan recognized that for once the animal was awaiting permission before jumping on him.

“Come.”

The hound jumped on him. It was not pleasant, but was endured much like the pain in his mouth and sinuses and hungry quiver in his gut. Once Dirthamen was settled, the place where he lay began to grow warm.

He slept.

He awoke to the sound of someone walking about on the cold second level. Dirthamen either woke up with him or was the reason he regained consciousness. It was very dark and the charcoal had burned down to ash, providing no light. He was warm under the blankets but the air was cold, and he waited until he heard the sound again.

Footsteps, staggered and uneven. Not a child, and either Ariyah or Samar: a stranger would have alarmed Dirthamen, who was laying quietly.

Jylan sat up and pushed away the warm blankets. It felt likely that he had slept for several hours, not enough to rest him completely, but sufficient for now. He had neglected to bring a candle or anything to light one with to Samar’s bedroom, so replaced his boots and stood up in the dark.

He opened the door and the narrow hallway was equally dark, flickers of firelight finding their way up the stairs. In the doorway to Ariyah’s room was the dark, robed figure making the noise.

Samar did not wear so many layers and Dirthamen whined quietly behind him rather than aggress. It was not a stranger: it was his sister.

“Ariyah?” He used his voice softly, and the figure did not startle: she had heard the door open and was facing him. Or he presumed she was facing him, as he could not see her face for the shadows.

She slumped back against the frame of the open door, and then slowly dropped to the dusty floor. Her sharp breaths were wheezing and laboured. She did not speak. She required immediate aid and he went to her.

She did not speak when he touched her face, which was sweating and hot. Her hair was tangled and when his eyes adjusted to the darkness his thumbs found wetness from tears down her cheeks and under her eyes. She reached for his hands in the dark and held them tightly, but did not push him away. Her sweat smelled sour.

She was in significant pain, and, very likely: afraid.

“What did the midwife give you?” It was not prudent to attribute such overwhelming distress to rape or abuse at the hands of her estranged husband. She did not answer him. “Ariyah, I am an apothecary: what did the midwife give you?”

One of her hands fell and palmed at her breast, then dug down through her shawl and shirt to find something hidden in her bosom. She withdrew a small glass bottle warm from her flesh. She maintained a grip on his sleeve as he took his hands off of her and uncorked the bottle, waving it gently past his own nose.

Sharp. Sour. Acidic and stinging. Biting. Not like lemon, more like rot, something rancid and awful by design. Familiar to him but not from Connor’s requisitions: from Arainai’s.

Poison, mild, common: deathroot.

The midwife had prescribed his sister deathroot.

The midwife had prescribed his sister poison.

The midwife had prescribed the mother of four young children the poisonous extracts of the deathroot plant.

He was not required to understand why he was required to ensure she did not succumb to the poison and die.

“ _My bed-_ ” she gasped. “ _Away- away from them- don’t_ -”

“You will not die,” He spoke directly but not accurately. “But I will not permit the children to see you like this.”

 _“Please- Jeevan please…_ ”

She was sweating and shivering, her clothes were damp when he lifted her arm around his shoulder and stood. He brought her into the dark room with her stripped bed and laid her down on it. In this room there was a single window and it was incredibly cold, her breaths and his both forming thin coils of mist from their mouths.

“I will return immediately.” He turned and saw Dirthamen in the scant moonlight, and gestured to the bed. “Protect her.”

The hound climbed onto the bed and laid down on his belly next to her, whimpering softly and cuddling to her body.

Jylan went downstairs. Here there was light and the quiet sound of breathing: she had managed to wake neither Samar nor the children. Samar was too far across the bed to be woken up or removed from the blankets without waking up the children, because at least one of them was in fact sleeping on top of him.

He found the sack from the ship: the box of potions from Valora, and opened it.

Snowdrop oil, verdant branches, elfroot poultice, embrium bundles, deep mushroom powder, spindleweed roots, blood lotus extract, concentrator agent, witchhazel extract. Elfroot.

He fetched one of the jugs of water and lit a candle in the low embers of the fire. He took the water the elfroot the embrium and the candle upstairs.

“You must chew.” Raw elfroot leaves would not cure poison. Her throat was swollen and he did not have  the aria vandal oil necessary to reduce the inflammation. “Hold it in your mouth and chew. Do not swallow the leaf, only its juices.”

He could not panic and he could not sooth her, only remain present as he realized he had neglected to bring a cup for the water and had to simply palm handfuls of it into her mouth. She kicked weakly and her breaths were sharp with panic, hands clutching at him in fear but never pushing him away. She was very afraid and he was the only one awake to manage the situation.

“You will not die.” He repeated. “You are in pain, but is not excessive given what you were told to swallow. You are afraid, and there is no fault in that. Swallow the juice, it will help you more than I can. When you taste nothing more from the leaf, spit it out and I will replace it.”

He continued to give her water, and when she spat the elfroot out he cut open one of the bundles of embrium and elfroot, removing the petal of one and the leaf of the other. He rolled and squeezed them between his hands to loosen the oils, and gave her several mouthfuls of water to help rinse her mouth and provide relief before giving her the new herbs.

Embrium had the ability to reduce inflammation in the lungs and to provide sleep. It worked best when boiled into a tea or reduced to a powder and dissolved, but the raw petals were still of use. It had a metallic and unpleasant taste, but was easily overpowered by the sharp sour notes of the elfroot.

She did not stop crying, but after several minutes, the embrium weighed down her limbs and she could not kick. The candle showed him her gaze lost some focus, but she could not sleep for the pain.

“I will return immediately.”

Her protests were too weak to follow him. He fetched a cup from downstairs, returned to the second floor, and quickly went into Samar’s room where he had brought a few belongings. He took the quilts and his cloak from the bed. He took the comb he had used on his loose hair.

He returned to her and filled the cup with water, letting her drink far more easily now and propping her head up with one arm to facilitate the act of swallowing. Her fever remained severe, her pain was reduced but not fully managed.

“I will not leave again unless you tell me to.”

Without help, it was difficult to move her and lay one of the blankets under her body, then return her to her spot. He gathered and moved her long hair aside, past her shoulder, then removed her shawl, apron, and the over layer of her dress. Her weeping was silent but she did not fight him, and he covered her in her smallclothes with another blanket and then his cloak.

More water, and he searched the room for what was available to him. A shirt which smelled faintly of stale alcohol revealed itself. It was not necessary to rip the seams of the garment, but if she survived tonight then she might take pleasure in the destruction of her estranged husband’s clothing. He wet the rag and used it to dab away the sweat on her face and neck, across her chest, and then her arms while paying attention to her wrists to cool and sooth her.

He muddled the rest of the embrium and elfroot bundle in the water jug, to provide her with more of the herbs by simply pouring more of it into her mouth. Her breathing was no longer so sharp, and her lungs filled more easily, with greater regularity.

Her pain, tears, and fever remained, but she was breathing.

“No baby,” she spoke weakly through her pain, but she could breathe and that had been his immediate concern. Whatever else the deathroot did to her, he was not properly supplied to correct for or manage. “I told her, no matter what: not another baby. Anything but another baby…”

Deathroot would facilitate a full-bodied purge meant to make Ariyah’s body hostile to the notion of another pregnancy, especially a day after her previous encounter. But so would spindleweed extract, diluted with other herbs and water. Jylan had prepared these things for Mistress Valora in the past. Deathroot was not meant for this, not in such concentration, not administered directly. Poached in a tea with aria vandal essence and embrium leaves and closely monitored with an abundance of elfroot and dawn lotus on hand. Not like this.

She took his hand and did not release it. He set aside the water and picked up the comb, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“You will not die, sister.”

He did not know if she believed him or not. He combed her hair, ignoring most of it’s length and focusing on letting the teeth brush gently across and back down her scalp. She grew quiet with this attention, and fell asleep.

Samar found them shortly before dawn. Jylan instructed him to take the money purse from the other room, and withdraw the ten silver pieces they had traded yesterday in the market.

“Pay the workmen ten silver when they arrive. Tell the children I have taken their mother to the midwife, or find some other method of preventing them from coming upstairs without frightening them. I would know where to find this woman and what her name is.”

Samar was very quiet. His homecoming had not been as envisioned or desired. He touched Ariyah’s hair very gently. Her lips were stained green from elfroot and her cheeks were sunken. She did not stir when he leaned down on the bed and kissed their sister’s forehead with kind reverence.

Her breaths were soft and slow, but deceptively quiet. Jylan had kept his fingers pressed to her throat for much of the night, and could still feel her heartbeat gently nudging against his touch.

“On our lane, headed away from the Venadhal.” Samar answered in a soft, hushed voice. “Last house, built up against the alienage wall with a lone glowstone lamp. She’s a stranger, no family.”

“Her name?”

Samar hesitated, and then softly repeated that she was a stranger.

“Neria Surana.”

Jylan nodded and extracted himself from Ariyah’s limp side. He commanded Dirthamen to remain and to protect her. He reclaimed his cloak, brushed his hair and braided it, and then left the house.

The brand hurt.

 


	30. The Midwife

 

It had snowed last night, carpeting the alienage’s wet, gravelly lanes with a thin fur of white. By walking quickly he was at risk for slipping into any of the abundant dark puddles pooling in the lane, but should he walk any slower it would increase the length of time necessary to reach his destination.

It was minutes within dawn and the alienage was silent but for dripping water and his footsteps and his own breaths.

Jylan walked until he found the end of the lane where three houses were crammed close together with thin alleys snaking off to the thick-hewn stones of the alienage’s outer wall. Two of the houses had a stone first floor, but the one in the middle was his destination: it bore signs of old blue paint, and there was a quartz glowstone hanging within a net of twine beside the door.

He realized he had disregarded to bring his gloves when he beat his hand three times on the wood and felt the paint chip and bite at his fist. He waited.

No answer.

He repeated the strike to the door. He did not knock: he struck. It was very early and it was necessary that the midwife hear him at once, not at her leisure. He waited again, white mist forming from his breaths.

He raised his hand to- an elven child answered the door.

“ _Yes?_ ” A child but not a very young one: a boy perhaps ten or more years old with long and loose brown hair and rich dark skin flecked with dark spots across his nose. His eyes were watery and green as he yawned behind his wrist, a long sleeved linen shirt and thick wool sweater covering him up under a blanket wound around his shoulders.

“Is this the residence of the midwife?”

“Uh-huh,” the boy answered, jaw wedged open by his yawn, and he nodded before stepping back inside and permitting Jylan to enter the house. “She’s getting breakfast…”

Jylan came into a room with stone walls and a floor freshly swept and then laid with bare rugs and two old animal pelts, on top of which was a mound of blankets and bedding which formed a small cot. The boy returned to the cot now to kick the quilts over until it gave the appearance of having been made up. The boy sat on his bed and pulled on a set of socks before fetching shoes for himself that were ratty but whole.

Jylan did not examine the space beyond the floor and the boy because he heard footsteps coming from upstairs. He saw bare toes and then the crossed leather weave of Dalish boots which vanished under a long tunic of white wool and several more layers of warm fabric cinched about the midwife’s waist with a thick leather belt. She was young and fair, close enough to him in years that he could not determine which of them was older, with her blonde hair drawn around the side of her neck and falling free, though not long.

Her hands were cupped together around something delicate, which did not matter at present.

“Are you the midwife?” He inquired from within his hood when the woman stopped with a shy startle.

“Yes? It’s very early, ser, I haven’t made my rounds yet.” She removed her hand from over what she was holding, revealing the irrelevant objects. Her fingertips rested at her belt, near but not too close to the hilt of the dagger carefully stowed there. “If you’ll give the boy and I a few minutes-”

“You poisoned my sister last night and I would see you correct for your incompetence.”

Her wide, bright eyes fluttered and she twisted her shoulders back with a poorly controlled recoil. Her hand left her belt and she steadied herself with a breath, watching him closely before speaking and nodding her head back up the way she had come.

“Jeevan, I don’t think I closed the coop on the roof: go make sure I gave the girls enough feed.”

He was prepared to tell her that he would do no such thing when the boy chirped _‘yes ma’am’_ and quickly escaped the room, his feet thumping quickly up the stairs. As soon as the boy was on his way the midwife turned from Jylan and placed five small pigeon eggs on the table in the middle of her home, then quickly began to fetch items by the fire and out on the counter where many tools and herbs were laid out.

“Next time just say something urgent has come up,” she said sharply, but did not consent to look at him as she checked several satchels and selected the ones she wanted, deftly attaching them to the wide belt around her waist. “Talking like that in front of a child is shameful. And I don’t know you, stranger: which house are you from?”

“Do you make it a conscious habit to overdose vulnerable women with deathroot?” Jylan posed his question rather than answer her own because there was an immediate danger to the childbearing women of the alienage if the midwife did not know to whom she had given such a noxious dosage. The gaping look of shock she gave him for his statement mediated some of that concern, and she turned on him with pride and aggression.

It was fortunate that Jylan was both taller than her and not vulnerable to intimidation.

“ _Deathroot?”_ She repeated sharply, fetching a thick knit scarf of white fur and wrapping it around her throat and shoulders, followed by a blue capelet cut with soft fur that she swung around herself as she walked for her house’s door. “Ashera then, and shame on you _again_ for speaking that way in front of him. I know all of the Ashera brothers, stranger, _who are you?_ ”

“My questions are more important,” he countered, following her closely. “Are you competent to correct for your own reckless actions or will I be required to take the necessary herbs and agents from your stores to resolve the matter myself?”

She stopped hard in front of him and spun, her thin blonde brows pulled down over her blue eyes. If this woman truly carried the surname Surana, then it required no great leap to believe the blood-bond between her and the Arl of Amaranthine was strong.

“Midwifery is the realm of _women_ , stranger.”

“Chemistry and alchemy are not gendered subjects, and I am proficient in both.” He answered her simply. “But midwifery is reserved for women who are skilled, capable, and respectful of their crafts, unlike-” she slapped him.

It was short and swift and did not repeat itself. It stung sharply at his cheek and chin but her hand had caught the cowl of his hood and shielded part of his face. As her height did not match his, her strength did not cause his head to snap away or the turbulent pain of a forceful blow to cloud his senses. He was alright.

She was already walking away from him and he followed at a steady pace, mindful not to lose his footing on the snow and water of the cold lane. The alienage was waking up for the morning, and the sharp, cautious glare flung back at him by the young midwife did not discourage him from following her: they were going to the same place to see the same person. What he did not do was catch up to her as he saw no purpose in continuing to speak with her.

They reached the house and the midwife was given pause by the activity in the lane and around the building. The workmen Jylan had hired had arrived and were taking measurements with notched sticks, brandishing tools and tapping hard at the bricks to test the integrity of the wall. She looked back again at Jylan, then moved forward through the team of twelve elven men and passed through the open door of the house.

Samar stepped outside after she entered, saw Jylan, and they approached each other.

“I paid them,” his brother said, looking uncomfortable and reserved: he was very worried about their sister. “Like you said. Arainai’s inside and he’s been talking to me about taking the kids somewhere else for a few days until the repairs are done: the fire’s only been out a few minutes and it’s _freezing_ inside.” As it had snowed last night and may do so again before the end of the week, Master Arainai’s suggestion was a sound one which would help ensure the health of the children.

“Are you capable of locating Rian and Saya within the city without assistance or company?”

“I should- I think so. I know where to ask around.”

“Then I would recommend doing so and informing them of their sister’s poor health. Upon further consideration, Master Arainai may also prove valuable in such a search if you should make such a request of him. I will provide the coin necessary to rent proper space for Ariyah, her children, and yourself.”

“What about _you?_ ” His brother asked the question with a distressed string of tension tied around the words.

“It is unwise to leave the house unoccupied as it is freshly stocked and my tools are too cumbersome to move again.” He answered. “I am capable of keeping the upstairs bedroom warm with the brazier, and will have Dirthamen for protection.” However, it then occurred to him that: “Unless the hound would be of greater benefit guarding the children in what will no doubt be an unfamiliar quarter of the city. In which case: take Dirth, and I will command him to obey you.”

“You alone _with_ the dog, I think I can handle,” Samar admitted to him with his hands now set firmly over Jylan’s shoulders. “But not you just alone. No way, it’s just asking for trouble.”

It bore further consideration.

“May we defer this decision until after I have seen to Ariyah’s care and recovery?”

His brother released him, but worried his hands together immediately after.

“Makes me nervous when the midwife’s around,” he admitted quietly. “Name’s probably fake, something she picked up to protect herself, but I don’t like any of it. What _happened_ last night?”

The toxins Ariyah had trustingly ingested had overwhelmed her body and nearly killed her. Jylan did not explain this to his brother.

“She became very ill, and will require a certain standard of care until the danger is fully past.”

“I’ll be up there when I can. _Stay with her_.”

Samar would watch the workmen. Jylan stepped into the cold house.

There were bowls with remaining food from last night dished up. Tahir had much of his portion smeared across his face, Anu was sitting in her chair chewing a piece of venison and laughing along with Raveena and Sanjay, who were sitting on the floor and fully entertained by Master Arainai’s antics with slight of hand and a deck of cards. He fanned them, spread them, and made the entire deck vanish. The brother was helping put his sister’s shoes on her feet, but was thoroughly distracted from this task when Master Arainai passed his hands over each other in a flurry, and the cards became a slim dagger.

“But it’s magic!” The boy exclaimed,

“Certainly _not_ , young master,” the assassin scoffed with a laugh, then looked up brief and bright toward Jylan. “Ah, your uncle has returned! A note for you, Master Ashera, on the table there. A written response will suffice.”

On the table and away from the food was an unfamiliar black leather notebook thoroughly abused by wind and rain. The pages were yellowed and soft, and next to them was a small rod of charcoal with a blunted nib. In simple script on the page was the following:

_Your sister shows signs of poisoning, and not mild ones either. I know you are aware of what such symptoms look like, do you know what caused this? -Z_

To communicate without speaking and, given the general illiteracy of the alienage, without being overheard. Jylan took up the rod and wrote his answer.

_Deathroot extract, volume unknown. Insufficiently treated with elfroot and embrium, reagents for a proper antidote are not presently available. The midwife will be monitored to prevent further harm. Necessary reagents may be purchased at a later date to prevent future incidents. – J._

He proceeded upstairs, to Ariyah’s room, and did not knock before letting himself in.

The midwife jumped away from the bed with a startled gasp, the hiss of something cutting behind his ears for a few moments as he paused in the doorway. Ariyah was awake but very weak on the bed. The midwife was hiding her hands behind her back, now frozen without immediate recourse.

Dirthamen was standing at the foot of the bed and looking at him. The hound gave a quick, welcoming bark for attention but Jylan did not answer the animal. He had seen light.

He closed the bedroom door behind him, placing himself directly in the room but without approaching the bed. He kept his arms at his sides and Dirthamen trotted up to him, rubbing his head up under Jylan’s hands to manufacture his own pets and strokes.

“You may continue,” he instructed the midwife. She blustered at him, cheeks pink.

“This- is _women’s work_ , stranger.”

“It is magic,” he corrected, “And if that is all you have available to you to restore my sister’s health and mediate the immediate and costly damage of your misused prescription, then you will do so.”

“It was not _misused_ ,” she argued.

From the doorway, the dresser where he had placed the glass bottle last night was easily reached and the bottle itself picked up. It was made of molded glass, very expensive, with the alchemical mark of deathroot stamped into the body. The wax seal around the mouth of the bottle was freshly broken, with a strip of copper wire still visible in the black lip. The thick green syrup inside had fallen by one quarter, perhaps equivalent to a teaspoon or a hesitant swallow.

“You did not make this.” He stated. “It was purchased, and misused. I will explain your faults and their impact at length after you have seen to my sister’s immediate and pressing needs. As I told you before, if you are incapable of helping her then I shall simply take the necessary reagents from your stores and prepare a solution myself.”

“Because you know chemistry and alchemy,” the midwife softly echoed. Jylan nodded. “Fine, how would you with all your _great knowledge_ treat deathroot?”

“I am not experienced in the nuances of healing and treatment, only the process and practice of creating the required medical agents. However, available downstairs is one who-”

Someone knocked sharply at the door and Master Arainai’s voice spoke through the thin wood.

“ _Compounder, I would have a word with you at once._ ” His timing was very agreeable to the situation. Jylan opened the door and was met by the distressed and worrying face of the assassin.

“Are you quite certain it is deathroot?” He asked in a hushed voice which would not carry back downstairs.

Jylan handed the small bottle to Arainai, who took it and was not even required to open the vessel to recognize the contents. Arainai returned the bottle to him, looked off without focus for a moment, and then put both hands up over his face, dark fingers pressing down on his eyes. He exhaled slowly with a loud, frustrated noise grinding up his throat, moaning through the sound with:

 _“Why is this alienage so awful?_ ” He then stopped making his noise and dropped his hands, looking at Jylan with clarity. “ _You_ do not have the lotus oils you need, I know, but certainly she must, and if not then I will give them to you and remove her from the house.”

“I can hear you,” the midwife stated, and Arainai perked up at once with a spark of attention in his pale brown eyes.

“And I am not speaking to you!” He said in a sing-song voice to mask a sense of anger. “I am mortally offended by what I, a connoisseur of such extracts, reactives, and contaminants, have had revealed to me this morning. If you are not at present administering the necessary antidote, midwife, then please understand that the only thing keeping you in this house is the fact that I do not wish to push Master Ashera out of my way.”

There was a catch in the midwife’s breaths and a weak shake that went through her at the threat. It was clear now that she had been caught and was aware of it. That she was no longer repeating her false assertion that the deathroot had been properly administered spoke to the possibility of sense or humility.

“You may continue, or I will move.” Jylan made his statement and the midwife shook herself again, but this time to control such nervous reactions.

“ _Please_ close the door.” She asked him, looking down at Ariyah and running her fingertips gently over his sister’s dark and dreary face. “The last thing I need today is the Hahren barging in next. I can help her; I know what I’m doing.”

Master Arainai stepped back a little to permit the door to close, but first gave him a slim, clear bottle of white lotus oil from the poison kit at his belt. Jylan had prepared this oil himself, and had packed it into the same kit the assassin wore. Arainai also held up the notebook from downstairs. A new line of text was scribbled onto the page:

_If she is false, have the hound bite her._

Jylan briefly considered this command, and then responded verbally.

“The last thing we need today is the Hahren barging in next. Thank you, Master Arainai, I will alert you if your presence is required again.”

Midwife Surana’s magic did not result in miraculous or sudden restoration of Ariyah’s health, but the complicated patterns and sweeping array of light worked by her nimble hands spoke of far greater skill than her insufficient knowledge of herbs. She did not work as swiftly as Archmage Surana might have, or with the same deft precision, but she made her patterns and spun her magic with focus.

She also chanted, very softly, to herself as she worked. El’vhen words petered past her thin lips, quiet lengths of poetry and prayer than Jylan was neither competent to decipher nor close enough to hear in full. What he ultimately garnered from watching her work was this: Midwife Surana was Dalish-trained.

She wore Dalish boots and a Dalish belt, her scarf was pleated fur like the Dalish scarf Jylan owned. She murmured Dalish song, not Circle numbers, and wove her magic together with the soft lines and constant curves of Dalish Keepers, not the geometric precision of Circle mages.

But she herself was not Dalish. She was a grown woman with the aforementioned traits of magic and dress, but her pale skin was not marked by the _valasslin_ of a Dalish clanswoman. None of the gods were represented on her skin and this was enough to cast the distinction. Midwife Surana was Dalish-trained, but not Dalish herself.

The magic calmed from its gentle glow to something almost beyond sensation save the noise still hissing and snapping faintly through the veil, and the midwife brought her hand gently down to rub over Ariyah’s lower abdomen. Her other hand took Ariyah’s gently, and the younger woman gazed down fondly with a careful smile for Jylan’s sister.

“No baby?” His sister asked weakly, her voice weak from the rough night. Surana shook her head.

“No, _dahlen_ , there’s no chance of that now, and perhaps never again. When your strength returns you can take care of your family without fear, just like we discussed.” Ariyah’s eyes teared up and Jylan could not tell if his sister was clenching her teeth, or trying to smile.

“Thank you-” she gasped, so it was most likely the latter. “ _Thank you_ , ma serranas, healer, thank you- _thank you_ \- I can’t- I just _couldn’t_ …”

Surana hushed her softly and removed her hand from Ariyah’s belly, brushing her forehead and hair gently before dipping down at the bedside to place a kind kiss on her brow. The genuine affection and care in the midwife’s behaviour carried a positive impact on his sister. As Jylan had demanded of her: Midwife Surana had corrected for her belligerence and neglect and Ariyah would be alright. If the expectation remained for Samar to locate Rian and Saya within the city then Jylan would be required to monitor the workmen downstairs and not linger here where he was not needed.

“This room is cold, _dahlen_ ,” Surana announced, some of the softness in her voice faltering when she cast a sudden and sharp look at Jylan. “The entire house is like ice. There are workmen crowding your home; do you know what’s going on?”

“Jeevan?” Ariyah cried. Surana’s gaze widened with surprise, and then she knelt close to Ariyah’s side with the warmth and kindness of her voice restored.

“I didn’t bring him, _dahlen_ , he-”

“No- _Jeevan?_ ” Ariyah repeated herself a little louder. “Are you here?”

He approached the bed but could not come all the way into Ariyah’s reach without crowding the midwife, who stood up quickly and stared at him blatantly, refusing to step back or to the side to permit him to come closer. Her gaze dropped briefly to Ariyah before focusing on him again, searching and struggling to see around his hood.

“Jeevan, _come here_.” He took another step and Ariyah grasped the air looking for him until he offered her his hand. She took that, then his wrist, and continued to pull until he came to sit on the bed next to her. She was no longer so feverish, but exhausted and weak as she twisted her neck to look at him from such a shallow angle. “You found workers? _Already?_ ”

“Yes, sister.” Surana backed closely into the corner between the wall and the bed, and said nothing.

“You paid them-?”

“Yes, sister.”

“You wasted all your money… everything you brought…”

“No, sister.” Jylan proceeded to explain himself, aware that Ariyah’s eyes became clouded with tears as he spoke: “It is neither all the money I was given nor a waste to see the house repaired as quickly as possible. I have asked Samar to find our siblings wherever they are staying in the city so that both you and the children may find lodgings close to them until the house is habitable again. At this moment, I am not concerned with reconciling the family, but with the safety of it. If Samar insists then I will agree to share the costs of the lodging with him, but otherwise consider it more appropriate and easily managed if I absorb the costs myself.”

“You can’t afford this…” Ariyah gasped softly, her hands clutching his now and her thumbs brushing over his fingers. “No elf in the city can- you don’t have the money, you _can’t…_ ”

“I was well-compensated for my service to the Grey Wardens, sister. I have committed a significant sum of silver considering the short time since my arrival, but that is precisely why it was given to me: to use.”

Ariyah watched him with her watery eyes, and then began to push and struggle to sit up until both Jylan and the midwife moved to aid her. Surana tried to hush his sister gently and discourage her motion, but Ariyah became belligerent and shoo’d the woman from her, reaching for Jylan instead.

“You- _you-_ ” her voice broke up into trembling sobs before Jylan was drawn forward into a clutching, feverish embrace. “I didn’t- even _welcome you_ \- not one _nice word_ and- and you- but you _still_ -”

He was not adept at providing physical or emotional comfort, and looked to the midwife for assistance as she was significantly more skilled in this area than anyone else currently in the household. Surana did meet his gaze, but did not consent to act on his behalf: she was scrutinizing him, searching him over and over with her gaze and not yet recovered from her state of muted shock. He was left with the only option of either forcefully removing Ariyah’s embrace from his body, or simply sitting there and seeking to sooth and return her to a horizontal position.

She wept hard and heavy against his shoulder, her hands clutching tight at his cloak, but he did not push her away. It would have offered no help to the situation and as he was not personally disturbed or distressed by her behaviour he did not have sufficient motivation to extract himself from the situation. He used his arms to support her weight, waiting for the opportunity to lay her down again and reduce strain on her body. He looked to the midwife briefly, and realized she was both emotionally invested and bothered by the unfolding scene.

“Thank you for completing your duty to my family.” He told her, aware of the utter confusion clouding her gaze as he spoke. “As she has now entered a state of recovery, your services should be resolved. If you require payment, it would be more appropriate for you to either approach my brother Samar downstairs, or to wait until she has calmed down sufficiently that you and I may discuss the matter quietly. Otherwise, you may return to your interrupted breakfast and your daily rounds.”

“How are you so _calm_?” She questioned, but now was not the appropriate time to answer. “What’s wrong with your _voice?_ She’s sobbing in your arms and you just-? You don’t _care?_ ”

“ _Don’t talk to him like that!”_ Ariyah suddenly shrieked, startling the midwife and inspiring a look of deep pain and concern to write itself across her pale face and eyes. “It’s not fair! _Away! Go!_ ” He increased the tension and strength of his hold around her, and Dirthamen jumped up onto the bare bed to snuff at Ariyah’s ill body and try to squeeze his head into her lap for comfort.

“You may either approach my brother Samar with these questions, Midwife Surana, or wait until my sister’s emotional outburst has settled. I am currently too busy to fully engage in such topics with you.”

“You barged into my home like I was a criminal, and now you’re just telling me to leave?” She asked him, “No explanation? Nothing at all?”

“You have fulfilled the task I required of you, my sister is upset and has asked you to leave. If you require payment then you will be paid, but not at this precise moment by my hand. Speak to Samar.”

“I don’t want money, I want _answers_ ,” she stubbornly replied.

“Then you will go downstairs and wait for me to join you.”

Surana stood there very rigidly for several further seconds, but Ariyah’s harsh crying did more to soften her heart than Jylan’s arguments could do to her resolve. She exhaled roughly, and then left the room. Ariyah continued to weep, and to cling to him, but slowly her sobbing became less erratic. After several long minutes of relentless distress, she began to fatigue and he was able to bring her back to a resting position on the bed.

She did not permit him to leave and held fast to his arms so he would not make the attempt.

“Stay…” Her dark eyes were very red, her lips remained pale, and she shivered now from the cold air in the room as well as the fading effects of the embrium he had given her last night. “It- it’s so _cold_.”

“Will you permit me to fetch the brazier from last night, fill it, and bring it back here?”

“ _No_ ,” she hiccupped. He removed his cloak instead, and cast it over her. Dirthamen huffed and nosed at the cloak briefly, then managed to dig himself under it and cuddle up close behind Ariyah’s shivering body. “Please stay, Jeevan. _Please_. I need to talk to you…”

He remained as requested, and when Ariyah pulled on him again he consented to lay down on the bed next to her. She was his sister and she did not demand or desire physical contact from him, only physical proximity. She lifted the cloak and placed part of it over his arm and shoulder where he was resting on his side, keeping the blanket over her body in place. When her hand brushed back through his bangs near the brand, it was very gently done.

“Mamae would have given _anything_ to know that you were still alive after the Templars came…” Her eyes quickly filled with tears again but she was not torn apart by sobbing again. His sister wept, but she spoke. “She cried for _weeks_. Babae had died just before the hoard broke, and we all saw you shoot fire from your hands that kept the darkspawn away. Your reward for fighting back when another elven mage was fighting atop Fort Drakon was the Templars to come marching through the tents, grab you by the arm, and haul you away without a word.”

“My memories from before the Circle are very partial and vague.” Which was to say he remembered little to nothing of that time. “I believe my recollections were clearer before the Rite of Tranquility, but the ritual itself was very traumatic. I know that I was here during the Blight, but I do not recall any part of it except broken stones and the sky turning a blood red colour.”

She stroked his face again, very gently. It was cold in the room but it was not unbearable.

“We told ourselves you’d turn out like the Hero,” she whispered. “Anything less hurt too much. Mamae abandoned the chantry after they took you away, and the Hahren told her that was why you’d been cursed: because her faith was weak.”

“Even in the Circles, they did not know the reason why magic manifests when and how it does.” He explained this time. “In Tevinter they claim it is a matter of bloodline and breeding, here in the South it is shrouded in superstition. I do not believe that a decision our mother made after my removal from the alienage could have contributed to the first event.”

“Did you bring Neria here, or did Samar?” He had not emotionally engaged with her on the topic of their mother, therefore she moved on.

“It did not seem prudent to explain matters in their entirety to Samar and then send him to find her, nor to distress him and then leave myself alone with the children who would have grown anxious. Samar’s instructions were simple to follow.”

“Then you… you saw him.”

“I saw Samar so that I could ask him where-”

“No,” Ariyah shook her head on the pillow, more tears falling and catching in her black hair. Her voice was raw and broken. “You saw my son.”

“Sanjay and Tahir are-”

“ _No,”_ she repeated, her throat tightening up around the words. “Their _brother_. At the midwife’s house, Jeevan, you saw their _brother_.”

“You have five children.” Jylan had been told this information by Hahren Masao yesterday. He had not pondered the detail at length because he had not spoken to Saya, and he did not know if it was considered his place or business to inquire more closely after the infant. His sister pursed her lips tightly now and her eyes continued to spill warm tears. She sought out his hand and held it close to her.

“It’s _my fault_ he lives with her now,” his sister whispered. “I just wanted Mamae to smile again. It made his father so angry, but the Hahren said it was my right to name my firstborn how I wanted, so I did…”

He remembered the strange command from Midwife Surana for Jylan to tend her pigeons. He remembered the midwife’s confusion when Ariyah had spoken his name. He remembered Hahren Masao saying Jylan’s name belonged to someone else.

“You named him after me.”

“I named my son after my mage brother,” she admitted with her throat thick and her face twisting from pain that poison had no part in. “And the Maker punished me for it by making my baby a mage just like him. There are no Circles left to send him to: we had to get him out of the house to protect the other children from being tainted like him.”

“It is very rare for magic to manifest in more than one child in a pool of siblings.” Their mother had birthed seven children, and only one had been a mage: Samar, Ariyah, Rian, Jeevan, Saya, Damen, Jenna. But sibling mages were not unheard of either. Ariyah had five children: Jeevan, Sanjay, Raveena, Tahir, and Anu. Jeevan was a mage, like Jylan in the previous generation. None of the others were old enough to rule out the possibility of more magic.

“If I had just _waited_ for you to come home…” Ariyah was weeping openly again, her body shaking with harsh tears. “If I’d just waited- named him for his father, or our father, or the Hahren, or the Hero of Ferelden- _anyone else,_ it wouldn’t have happened like this.”

“If Jeevan was going to be a mage, sister, then the name you chose for him would not have made a difference.”

“Tell that to his father- or his _uncles_. Convince Samar it wasn’t my fault, or go to the Hahren and prove it to _him_ instead.” Samar he would speak to. The Hahren would prove difficult to speak sensibly with. “Saya would coo and smirk at me, but at least her brat came out sheet-white and round-eared…” The bitterness she tried to muster was insufficient to stop her sobs.

He did not suggest fetching Samar here to comfort her, as she had just stated that their brother was one of the people she experienced great stress from over the topic of her son’s magic. He did not move to bring Midwife Surana back into the room, despite her great proficiency with empathy and care, because she was the mage now presumably mentoring and protecting his nephew. He did not offer to depart on the basis of simply and respectfully leaving her alone because she had requested his presence. He did not have a viable alternative to his own presence with her, because this situation, tangentially, was as much his fault as it was hers.

He had been a mage. The Templars had removed him from his family because of his magic. His mother and siblings had missed him, so his sister had given her own son his name as an homage. This had put strain between his sister and her now-estranged and violent husband. The nephew had become a mage like the uncle, causing fractures within the household and the child’s removal to the midwife’s abode.

Neither Jylan’s magic nor Jeevan’s magic had any concrete cause. However, through the association of family, of magic, and of emotion, it was a burden Ariyah had carried alone ever since her child’s gifts had manifested. It did not, logically, make sense to assume there was anyone else in their family or the alienage who would understand her situation with greater clarity than Jylan himself. The tragedy of the moment was his own emotional vacancy from the matter at hand.

His sister was weak, ill, and weeping. Because he understood his gaze was unsettling to others, Jylan closed his eyes before moving closer to her on the bed. As she had stroked his face earlier, he performed the same gesture for her benefit now. She moved closer to him until her face was tucked close to his chin, her arms wrapped tightly around her hurting body. She cried for many long minutes and he ran his palm and fingers gently through her hair, otherwise remaining still.

When she calmed and spoke again, her voice was husky from abuse.

“That… that mark on your face…” she whispered. “It took away your magic?”

“Yes, sister.”

“And it… it’s the reason you don’t react to things. You don’t get angry, or embarrassed, or want anything. It’s because of the mark, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sister.”

“Was it worth it?” She asked him so softly that it was possible she thought the words were illicit in some way. “Was it worth, to be free of magic?”

“No, it was not.”

“Do you… want it _back?_ ”

He considered the question, but not for very long before arriving at his answer.

“…From the moment I was made tranquil, sister, something has been wrong.” He explained, his hand around her back and resting softly on the thin fabric of her shift. “It is not a presence, or a sensation, but an absence. It is not only the awareness of magic that is lost to me, although I know there is a stillness that pervades me where once there was something else, but this is a nothing. Do you know the burn of emotion that builds in your body before it chooses to manifest as rage or sorrow?”

“I know it all too well…”

“When I encounter moments of heightened emotional tension, I feel the solid weight which precedes that burn. A hand holding me down, a bar against my ribs, or some other metaphor which is insufficient to explain the matter properly. Nothing burns, and nothing comes out. Nothing rises up as laughter or tears, not even anxiety over that absence. I feel nothing, sister. If the Maker exists then he chose to give me the gift of magic, and then the Chantry made the decision to correct him, to defy him, and to hollow out everything else that I was to get rid of it.”

Ariyah put her arms around him very gently, and then firmly, and finally she hugged him very close and warm, breathing slow and deeply next to him. She was weeping again, very softly, but did not let it progress beyond quiet tears into any greater signs of distress.

“Then when I get out of this cold, awful bed, and those men I hear banging and crashing around in my house are finished and gone,” she vowed, her voice regaining some of its bitter tang. “I’m going to make my little brother a proper hot and homecoming meal. If you can’t feel anything else, Jeevan, I’m going to make damn sure it’s full and watch that _etunashol_ husband of mine choke on his uncle’s dry millet.”

 _Etunashol_. He considered the word. It was _el’vhen_. He had heard it before. He could not quite remember the translation.

“That word is familiar.”

“Don’t tell the children what it means; Saya and I came up with the idea.”

“I presume it is something rude.”

“Yes, very.” She smiled against him and muffled a soft chuckle.

“May I ask a question, sister?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Are you afraid of your husband?”

She was quiet. He asked only to gather absolute confirmation of what he otherwise was required to infer from her behaviour. She hugged him a little tighter, then spoke softly.

“ _Yes…_ ”

“Then it is fortunate that I have returned to Gwaren, because the absence of strong emotions also liberates me from the concept of fear.”

“That… could be very good, or very bad for you, Jeevan.”

“The hound behind you on the bed is also a properly trained and bred mabari, and even in situations where my own fear would be advisable I have considerable doubts Dirthamen would be similarly threatened.”

“Why do you have a mabari, and _why_ does it have a Dalish name?”

“Dirthamen was a gift I received as thanks for my services to my Warden patron in Amaranthine. His name was the short-sighted acceptance of a suggestion made by another Warden whose approval I considered harmless to garner. My point remains: I am incapable of fear or terror in the face of your _etunashol_ husband, and Dirthamen is impervious to most threats and dangers present within the city limits. If Eli should seek to enter the household again, I see no viable reason to permit him to do so.”

Under the cloak, Dirthamen lifted his head up and gave a muffled bark behind closed jaws, then settled back down with a huff.

Ariyah was quiet again, but did not move away from him.

“You met him, didn’t you?”

“Dirthamen sought to frighten him away from me, Master Arainai was similarly incensed. I found him intensely disagreeable.”

“He can’t even endear himself to a man without emotions,” she marvelled softly. “My already low expectations have fallen.”

“With your permission, sister, I will not permit Eli Masao to enter our house again.”

“Little brother, if it’s my permission you want then I can do better than that: you can run him right out of the alienage if you want to.”

“Perhaps I can encourage him to quit Gwaren itself.”

“If your dog bites him hard enough, maybe he’ll just give up on Ferelden as a whole.”

“It appears we are of one mind on the matter.” He opened his eyes slowly, aware that he was now comfortable and reasonably warm on the bed with her. He had not slept well for the previous two nights, but he also had not eaten properly last night or today. Samar also, likely, would not leave the house with Arainai to search for Saya and Rian until Jylan returned to the main level. “I will leave Dirthamen with you for now. You and I have not eaten and as the midwife stated, the room is very cold without a source of heat. I will return shortly, sister.”

“Make sure those brutes aren’t ruining my spices,” she withdrew her arms from around him, leaving a cold band where they had been resting. He did not take his cloak with him, and when Dirthamen sat up again with a muffled bark for his attention, he commanded the hound to stay.

Downstairs, the chimney was gone. Sunlight was pouring through the house and there was not a breath of warm air to be had. The men were standing atop mounds of pulled down bricks, sorting them into two piles: rubbish for gravel, and good bricks for re-laying. The midwife had departed. The children were gone from the house. Samar and Arainai were speaking closely with one another while Arainai held Saya’s baby to his shoulder, comfortably stroking the infant’s back and bouncing it as he maintained his focus on Samar. Both of them looked at him when he appeared.

“Is she okay?” Samar asked first. “I mean is she _okay?_ ”

“She will require time to regain her strength, but is resting easily.” Jylan answered. “She will also require hot food, and that may pose a problem: I have no alchemical powder to create heat, and the fireplace is clearly not in operation. While there is charcoal to heat the room, it may not be wise to move her to another city quarter in her current state.”

“The children will not like it,” Arainai murmured, “But perhaps she should remain here with you? That room is not nearly large enough for all five children, yourself, the hound, and your sister to sleep in together, even on the floor.”

“That may be the most viable solution,” Jylan agreed.

“This is such a mess,” Samar moaned, eyes closed and arms folded. “I want to find Rian.”

“Your brother and I were discussing,” Arainai continued, speaking to Jylan. “Whether to take the children to whichever inn or tavern or other lodging your siblings have found, but given the nature of your sister’s _employment_ , it may not be the most family-friendly of spaces.”

“Maker, I said keep your voice _down…_ ” Samar grumbled, casting a dark look over at the workmen scrambling around with the bricks and their tools. “The neighbours won’t take us, they’ll expect me to let the _etunashol_ play father for a few nights, and the Hahren would _love_ to have us crawl to his place begging for a warm bed and a meal. So it’s wherever Rian and Saya are, or we spend the night with-” his brother gestured to:

“Me!” And Arainai’s face broke into a wide grin. “I assure you, the inn I have been keeping to is very close, and very cheap. I already inquired as to the vacancies last night and I have an open tab there: your family would not be required to shell out an abundance of coin. Given all that has happened these last two days, it would be my pleasure to relieve some of the burden.”

“Look, my _brother’s_ silver I will take,” Samar told him shortly, “But if you keep this up then _you-know-who_ up in Amaranthine’s gonna cut you off, and then what?”

“My dear Master Ashera, I already used the money from Vigil’s Keep for my own deeply selfish ends in Denerim. What I offer now is my own, without complaint.”

“I already told you: if you wanna help, keep the _etunashol_ away from this house.” Arainai snorted a little at the name, still smiling.

“I do love that word for him, and you say your younger sister picked it out? Truly imaginative, I cannot wait to make her acquaintance.” The word was once again familiar and reminiscent of something.

“I do not remember the precise meaning of that word in el’vhen.” He told them both, and Arainai gave him a look of surprise.

“Of _course_ you do! Remember the _madeline syrup_ you would brew for me? The noxiously crimson one? It uses the carapaces of the little beetles found crawling about in-” _Etunashol:_ a small beetle which feasted on horse and cow feces, informally known in trade as the:

“Shitbug,” Jylan quoted.

Arainai and Samar both started laughing. It was not verbose or excessive, but a mutual giddiness at the impolite name.

Arainai stepped forward and instructed Jylan on the most appropriate method of holding his infant nephew to his chest and shoulder. Although he was still incompetent with such a task, the human child did feel far more secure now than he had last night when dangling between Jylan’s hands. The baby was dozing, but recently fed.

“We will find your siblings,” the assassin pledged, “and if we cannot manage it before this evening, then we shall take the children with us to the inn for the night where I have been staying. Either way, there is no point emptying the pantry when there is no place to cook what is stored inside. Perhaps you can heat but a small bit of water and give your sister tea and herbs to go with some of the dried foods? Regardless, we will bring something hot for you both and the hound to eat when we come to collect the children.”

“Please stay safe,” Samar asked him, which was illogical as Jylan and Ariyah would remain in the house while their brother and Master Arainai scoured the city with all its dangers. “We’ll find them, just take care of her and the baby.”

They left and Jylan gathered charcoal, flint, and a handful of kindling from the discarded wood box before returning upstairs. Ariyah was asleep and the infant was nearly so, and it was fortunate that now was the time Jylan came across a small baby cradle on the floor on the far side of the bed. He scoured the room for another blanket, laid it in the cradle, and set his nephew down without complaint inside the wooden rocker.

He brought the brazier into the room and lit the charcoal, only two of the five pieces he had brought upstairs. He took Dirthamen back down to the main level to quickly survey the workmen, and-

“Master Ashera.”

Dirthamen walked right past Midwife Surana and out the open front door to relieve himself and drink from the wet puddles of snowy water. Jylan did not understand the reason for her presence in the house as she had not been here several minutes ago. That the mother of her apprentice was ill did not occur to him as proper motivation for her return: Samar had already explained that the neighbours would not involve themselves with the Hahren’s extended family.

“Midwife Surana,” he greeted her, albeit after a significant pause. “My sister is sleeping.”

She was still dressed in her outfit of white and blue, her Dalish-craft boots now paired with soft gloves. In her hands she held a closed iron pot by its two handles, and across her torso was a strap holding a large wooden cylinder the sort of which Warden Lavellan had carried with him during the war with Redcliffe Arling. The Warden had carried heated wine and water in his, Jylan did not know what the midwife carried now.

His namesake was not with her. The midwife was staring at his face. Focused staring: not gazing or confused, but staring pointedly and with her attention completely enraptured by what she saw. Her blue eyes were steadily widening, and she stepped forward and pushed her arms out to place the pot on the table without watching her own position. As soon as she released it she crossed to him directly, staring up between and above his eyes.

“Creators above- you’re…” She did not finish her statement, mist clouding her mouth when she spoke. He folded his hands in front of him and tucked his elbows to his sides, an appropriate standing position. Without tearing her eyes away, she gestured to one of the chairs. “Sit- _please sit_. I’ve heard of- but I’ve never _seen_ -”

He took one step back from her. An apostate midwife did not have authority sufficient to command him.

“The brand is very similar to any other scar acquired by the application of hot metal to living flesh. It is a Chantry sunburst design, a thumb-length tall and half as wide. Despite the similarities to other burn marks, it is sensitive to physical pressure, and I do not presently have the time to commit to a lengthy examination of its features.”

She stopped and gave this a moment’s thought, her eyes dropping to his before being incessantly brought back to the brand.

“You were a mage- and the _Shemlen_ Chantry destroyed your magic.”

“I am cut off from the Fade, the realm of spirits, demons, and dreams, yes.” He answered. It was good that she did not advance on him again. “I will permit quiet conversation, Midwife Surana, but this level of the house is at present a worksite for the labourers hired to rebuild our chimney and hearth. If you have brought hot food for my sister and my nephew, it is better brought upstairs to her room where a brazier is burning to provide relief from the cold.”

“I… I left Jeevan at home,” she admitted softly, “He has a lot of chores to do, but yes: Ariyah will need something hot to eat. There’s tea as well.”

“I was referring to my young and unnamed nephew,” he corrected. “The infant from my younger sister who is currently sleeping upstairs. Regardless: I thank you for your consideration, Midwife Surana.”

“You said you would speak to me!” She blurted out quickly, advancing by half a step before freezing and pulling back.

“I did.” He answered. “My thanks were not a dismissal, Midwife Surana. If I intended for you to leave then I would say as much, as I did earlier this morning.”

She swallowed hard while still staring at him. She was making a concerted effort to focus on his eyes, not the brand obscured by his black bangs.

 “I- I have questions, Master Ashera,” She stated in a softer voice. “Many more now than I did a few minutes ago. If you will allow me to come upstairs with you again- I think you and I need to have a talk.”

He considered this proposal briefly.

Then he nodded.

“I will bring the appropriate dishes for your offerings. Thank you.”

And they went upstairs.


	31. Kinloch Hold

 

Why did he never choose to go anywhere during the height of summer? What was so wrong with him leaving Vigil’s keep in the early warmth of spring? Why had Soren always chosen, since Ostagar, to the War with Redcliffe, to today on the Imperial Highway, to leave his nice warm bed in _winter?_

The Imperial Highway was what made the journey west tolerable. The rest of it was wet, and cold, and wind-blown with water pelting the land, turning the suspended stone road to a river when the hills made it pull down at a gentle slope. The rain wet the hard leather of the saddle and reigns, caused mist to peel off his horse’s flanks, and rattled the outside of his helmet as they rode.

Six horses was a much larger party than he had considered taking for this journey, but he had never explicitly stated that he was going alone and the party had grown in a natural course. One horse for himself, because he had no interest in walking from Vigil’s Keep to the northern shore of Lake Calenhad. One for Morrigan, who took to the air as a bird when the weather permitted it or otherwise to the black form of a hound who trotted diligently next to Dinah in the downpour.

Another for Velanna, who had heard chatter of his leaving and come forward to ask where. She shared a hunger for knowledge with Morrigan that he saw no reason to discourage. She had asked him, in a properly hesitant manner, of other elves who had served within the Circles of Magi and any he knew who would have come from Kinloch Hold. Enchanter Elorah, Connor’s mentor, had been one of Soren’s teachers in the later years of his education. Enchanter Fisher had been an old, fussy sort of mage very particular about his candles and his reagents. An elven mage named Finn had transferred to Kinloch Hold from Jader after the Blight and had assisted Soren in some primary research into Eluvians, but they’d fallen out of contact, and the last he’d heard Finn was working with the College of Enchanters in Cumberland.

There had been others, some he remembered and others he didn’t, but what could be found of elven mages within the ruined Circle wouldn’t be restricted to their own alumni. Mages had _consistently_ been shuffled around between Circles, both to break up troublesome groups and to reward those who wanted out of their towers from time to time. With those transfers had come exchanges of other kinds: books, letters, diaries, treatises, and so on.

As an Apprentice Soren had _read_ several works by First Enchanter Orsino of Kirkwall without ever having left the island or seeing the older mage himself. He couldn’t quite remember which mages had been elven and which ones human, but it hadn’t mattered to him at the time. It mattered to Velanna, and it would probably matter to other elves at some point, so why discourage her? It meant nothing to him if she gathered dead names and tedious volumes of magical theory. If anything, it was something for her to take to the _Arlath’vhen_ and say: _‘look at what the elves of the Chantry have accomplished’_.

Another companion for the journey was Warden Sephri, who had surprised him with her interest in seeing Kinloch Hold. Sephri’s raw _hatred_ for the Circles was no secret, or even a tactfully restrained opinion. She hated the Circles and she hated the College that had replaced it: she hated any suggestion that her life should be dictated to her on account of her magic. Odd then, he often wondered, that she would have joined the Grey Wardens where her duties and responsibilities would _always_ be tied to her skills.

But she wanted to come. She wanted to see Kinloch Hold. She wanted to compare it, perhaps, to Starkhaven and Kirkwall. Maybe she expressed her interest out of respect to Connor, whom she had served the Wardens with, or Soren himself: they had both been trained in Kinloch Hold and had complimentary views of the system that had trained them. As with Velanna, Sephri’s interests didn’t hinder Soren and if such a harmless thing could make her happy, then so be it.

Velanna’s presence warranted bringing Nathaniel on the fifth horse, and Soren had given his friend a sideways look for wanting to come. There was nothing for him in the ruins of the Circle. Nathaniel’s only answer had been that four mages together seemed a bit thin, even if three of them were Grey Wardens. Besides, an abandoned tower would have locked doors, wouldn’t it?

Soren had not burst his bubble by explaining how those locks would be _enchanted_ , he would wait to see the reality hit him in its own time. Nathaniel was good company in the rain, and it made Velanna happy to have her husband at hand. If Velanna was happy then she would keep Sephri happy, and no one would bother Soren.

The sixth person in the company didn’t bother him either, although it was with him that Soren found himself speaking the most. Warden Mahanon Lavellan, for no immediately obvious reason, was with them.

The older man had lived a wandering, but not warring, life. He’d taken the Joining at the considerable age of forty-five, easily the age when most soldiers considered a quieter end to their careers and when some Wardens could feel their more violent retirement looming. His thick black hair was threaded with grey and he didn’t ride horses easily as he was always softly, to himself, mumbling that Halla were better mounts.   

That he was a powerful and competent mage was clear, and he wore his blood-writing proudly on his pale skin and hawkish nose. He didn’t smile easily and had a particular Dalish aloofness that had kept them from speaking closely about anything but their respective magical practices. But he also had a talent Soren had realized in the last few weeks and found it a shame that it hadn’t come up between them earlier.

“I can either give you the right answer to that question, Commander, or the real one.” He knew the kinds of games Soren _loved_. “Your preference?”

“Well, it is a miserable and freezing morning, Corporal, so let us have the right one.” Rain was dripping from Mahanon’s blue Warden cowl and hammering Soren’s helmet with constant chatter. It was indeed _freezing_ as their horses cantered on along the grey highway.

“The right answer for why I requested to come along, Commander, is that my experiences with the violent death of my Clan and my skills and training as a Keeper compel me to support you.”

“Excuse me?” Soren made sure his disapproval carried through the rain between them. The Dalish Warden shrugged under his sopping cloak.

“You loved your Circle as any Dalish would their Clan: the good and the bad, the right and the wrong. You knew it and you protected it as best you could until powers beyond your control stepped in and violently tore it from this world. We’re riding to a place of slaughter, Commander, the _right_ answer is that I came along to help you through it.”

“You presume a _great deal_ about your value and expertise, Warden.”

“Should I dig the hole a little deeper and say I want to offer myself as an elder brother or uncle figure to you, as an homage to our respective ages?”

“Only if you want to walk back to Vigil’s Keep,” Soren warned.

“Oh dear.” Lavellan did not smile easily, but he smiled now with a mouth full of white teeth. “It was the right answer for Velanna. Do I get to keep my horse if I tell the honest truth, Commander?”

“At this point, Warden, the anticipation is the only thing keeping you in that saddle.”

Mahanon kept his teeth showing, then hefted his ironbark staff a little where he was riding with it in one hand, the end held in the stirrup of his saddle. He took it up and with a simple one-armed motion swung the butt end out at Soren. The staff bounced twice off the heraldic shield strapped across his back, offering no harm but still making him sit up a bit straighter. He was toeing the dangerous line of disrespect now, but Soren kept his bite in check: he’d hear him out first.

 “I want to know how you, a mage, fortify yourself to the point where you wear armour and carry a shield like a properly trained warrior, and yet never exhaust yourself. You have too many things to occupy your time between the Wardens and the Arling at Vigil’s Keep, but now I’ve got you on a quiet, if miserable, ride all the way across the country and back.”

“That is a _much_ better answer, Warden.”

“I know it’s magic.” Mahanon continued and he was both very focused and serious about his question. “I’ve seen you spar with sword and shield in the yard back at Vigil’s Keep. When you aren’t focused, it’s exhausting and you get thrown down or risk injury the same way, if you’ll pardon the _obvious_ , anyone else of your stature would.”

“Calling me short isn’t going to help your request.”

“But it should,” Mahanon countered him, “Because elves don’t build muscle the same way humans or dwarves do, even as Grey Wardens, but when you’re focused I’ve seen you stop one of Constable Oghren’s swings cold against your shield.” Soren’s pride warmed up just enough that he was allowed to lighten the mood a little.

“I’m glad you saw that, because I’ve only managed it the one time.”

“Oh, I was also there when he broke your arm and you left the ring as one great bruise, Commander, but we’re focusing on the benefits here, not the risks.” Despite himself, Soren laughed. “Did you develop it yourself? I’ve never found the technique described in any Chantry book or Dalish song.”

“I will gladly take credit for its _rediscovery_ ,” Soren allowed, “But I’m surprised the Dalish Keepers don’t know of it. I found the knowledge hidden away in the elven ruins buried deep in the Brecellian forest during the Blight.” A small crystal. A lost, mournful cry in the dark of old stones. A spirit barely sentient, maddened from eons of quiet existence. The soul of an Elven mage once of a revered order, struck down, and who had thought reanimation was guaranteed only to be kicked aside, overlooked, and forgotten until the madness came…

“Then it would be from Arlathan,” Mahanon stated. “Or something between the Fall and the Long March, not the Dales. Would you know the way to find these ruins again?”

“If I couldn’t then Keeper Lanaya of Clan Zathrian would. She became Keeper while camped within a few miles of the ruins- but there’s no need to go that far. I released the spirit that taught me the magic, Warden, but I don’t see why I can’t show it to someone else. Are you that interested in plate armour?”

“If brutal honesty will get me what I want, Commander: I just want the satisfaction of hitting certain faces with a shield without losing my breath right after.” Soren was grinning, that was the _perfect_ answer.

“It is _very_ satisfying,” he admitted.

“You learned the shield and sword properly from the King?”

“Partially from him, during the Blight.” Alistair had, admittedly, been very patient about going through the basics with him. Alistair had been unwilling to trust the whispers of an odd jewel he had watched Soren quietly obsess over for the better part of an hour in those ruins, but results were results. From the beginning the spirit’s memories had meant harder leather and folded metal scales under Soren’s thinned and stripped circle robes, and with Alistair’s help he’d learned to put his own shield up between his face and Darkspawn archers in a pinch. “The rest, more formally, afterwards. Constable Kondrat maintains that I’m better with a maul or battle-axe, but if I don’t have the protection of the shield then I might as well just keep my staff.”

“Could you not combine the two?” Mahanon asked, and Soren kept quiet, waiting for more. “Affix a casting stone to the butt end of a maul, or a larger blade to a staff?”

“Do battlemages not go through enough of them as-is?” He asked, but it was still amusing to consider. “Maker, Lavellan, next you’ll be telling mages to throw their staves like spears.”

Mahanon was quiet for a moment, and then made an accusing statement:

“Didn’t Warden Guerrin do that to a High Dragon?”

“His report said he wedged it into the High Dragon’s mouth to keep it from biting Lieutenant Howe’s legs off.”

“He fucking javalin’d it straight down the creature’s throat!” Nathaniel shouted from behind them in the rain. “Don’t let him tell you any different!”  

It was good, having Mahanon along with them.

Their party was larger than he’d expected, but not unwieldly. Grey Wardens could travel quickly and did so, leaving Vigil’s Keep and making it to the mountains near Soldier’s Peak by the end of that first day. On the second they cleared the mountains, and on the fourth they passed Highever in the rain with only passing word to a patrol they met to take Amaranthine’s regards to Teyrn Cousland. Perhaps on the way back, he told the Guard-Captain, Soren would have time to visit his superior properly, but at present he had urgent business in the east.

That business was the effort to reach Kinloch Hold and make it back to Amaranthine before the shivering cold creeping up from the south finally turned the Storm Coast’s endless rain to freezing sleet and sticky white snow. They would not make it: they were two weeks through Harvestmere, and the first snow fall usually struck before Satinalia at the end of the month.

But they tried.

They travelled _very_ quickly after Highever. Running and cantering kept the horses warm in the rain, and the cold was a good push to get them from the open road into the next nearest settlement every night to spare the animals the ice and rain of standing outside through the dark hours. A cold horse would soon be an injured one, and Soren wasn’t interested in trading horseflesh on this trip or in hearing a lecture from his horse master if they came back with none of the mounts they’d left with.

Still, it was not good weather. It took a week for them to descend into the lowlands which led towards Lake Calenhad. The wintery grey was hammered into their backs by the wind, the trees offering little protection along the road as they left the Imperial Highway and slowed considerably in the presence of sticky mud and dangerous puddles.

Twelve days from home, and finally, Soren saw the haunting spire of Kinloch Hold piercing the grey mists rolling off the rainy lake. They came off the road into a hilly drop that led straight into the water, but for a slim band of level beach before the body of an old tavern and inn: The Spoiled Princess.

Soren was surprised, but still very pleased, to see the establishment still open and in business. The innkeeper serviced fishermen and local traders who worked the county roads in the River Dane Bannorn, but he was refreshingly open about serving a party of four mages, three of whom were elves, a mabari, a wet archer, and a stubborn raven.

“You will warm up faster if you leave and make a proper entrance.” Soren had left the iron and bloodstone staff he had favoured these last few months behind in Amaranthine. In his hand now, with Morrigan’s claws digging stubbornly into the facetted dawnstone head, was a rod of twisted white dragonbone.

She cawed at him rudely and batted her dripping wings by the fire, clicking her beak sharply to indicate he should let her down closer to the heat. He waved the staff head a few times just to irritate her, and Morrigan hopped twice before she skated down the rod to his wrist and dug her claws into his arm. Fortunately for him: he hadn’t even taken his gauntlets off, nevermind the vambraces.

He smiled at her and ordered a hot meal for the table along with a round of mulled wine. A fresh plate of poached lake fish on a bed of coiled greens, mushrooms, and onions was enough, with a taunting bite of it taken by Soren, to get Morrigan to finally give up and flutter away through the inn only to return a few moments later soaking wet and wrapped in her cloak.

“ _That_ ,” she hissed, stealing the fork out of his hands and sitting down angrily beside him. “Is _mine_.”

“You still make it better,” he flattered as he poured hot wine for her.

“I use the proper fish,” she grumbled back. “Ones that cannot be found this far north but which are plentiful in the wilds.”

Nathaniel was making a face at them, though it was Morrigan’s fish and Soren sitting next to her with a proper pie filled with gravy and ram chunks.

“I just don’t see how anyone can eat those scaly, bloodless things when there’s proper meat to be had instead,” the Warden grumbled.

“That’s the most Fereldan thing I’ve ever heard,” Sephri told him, but didn’t look up from her own ram and beet stew. Soren couldn’t let the topic pass him, fresh bread or no.

“You grew up in a harbour city, Nate,” He goaded with a smile, “What did you _think_ normal people ate?”

“I grew up in _Vigil’s Keep_ , Commander,” was the answer. “And I was smug and ignorant of anything actual hard-working folk did that didn’t involve me.”

The meal was spent smoothly and in easy company. Soren made himself ignore the absence he felt at the table and pretended most convincingly that there was nothing out of place having Sephri seated next to him instead of someone _else,_ who had left Amaranthine a fortnight ago for his own reasons.

Rooms and warm beds were paid for with little thought for cost. Soren did not expect them to be here more than a day, perhaps two at the most. There was still a boat that could carry them across the water for a modest fee to compensate the fisherman’s time. There was no fishing or foraging in the waters near the tower. Lake Calenhad was the lifeblood of western Ferelden, but the Spoiled Princess was just about as close as you could get to the ruined Circle of Magi without suffering from the sour pollution of centuries of magical waste being dumped into the water. Lyrium, sulfur, chemist’ wastes, alchemical debris, garbage, offal, and so many other things over countless years.

The innkeeper’s word told him that after seven years without the mages on the island the water was beginning to settle and cleanse itself, but it would be a long time still before the Princess served fish caught less than ten miles south of her own wharf. It was an odd topic to linger on.

Soren had passed several cold, quiet nights on the journey here, but his sleeplessness returned in full that night in a small inn bed next to Morrigan. The innkeeper had not so much as raised an eyebrow at boarding two couples of humans and elves along with Sephri and Mahanon in their own rooms, but that had more to do with the abundance of staves and robes drinking his wine and filling his coffers with silver than real discretion.

He didn’t sleep. The room felt cold and he couldn’t quite shake the chill of the rain and the churning grey water rumbling on the other side of the thin wall. When he closed his eyes for a few minutes of rest between pounding sheets of rain, the Black City was dominated by one looming black spire in the dreamscape.

Morrigan kept herself curled up across his chest all night, tolerant of the warm woolen clothes they were both dressed in. He couldn’t tell if she rested but he assumed she did. Dinah tried to sleep by the room’s fire, but several times in the night he heard her claws tapping on the floor as she checked the bed, leaning her muzzle on the quilts and blankets close enough for him to feel her concerned breaths on his fingers.

He turned his nose to Morrigan’s coarse hair, closed his eyes, and ignored the storming echo of the lake.

The next day they had a break in the foul weather, chartered the small boat, and Morrigan flew ahead of them after transforming herself beyond the layman’s sight and attention.

The fisherman swore a prayer to Andraste and called them, respectfully, very foolish for treading on haunted and cursed grounds. It was not the same boatman Soren had known from years ago: Kester had sold his boat and left the lake’s shores after the annulment of the Circle…

Once, there had been a watery entrance leading under the black rock of the Circle’s island that had led to a dock further inside, with a threshold and corridor leading to the main foyer. Oghren had come here last year, briefly, in a desperate bid to find Soren’s son after a very dangerous play by Arl Eamon Guerrin to try and ruin him. His constable had told him that the tunnel was collapsed, and that was exactly what they found now: shards of massive black rock and hewn blue marble staggered in the poisoned water and ready to gouge out the bottom of the boat if they proceeded this way.

They detoured around the island, to a beach of sharp black gravel, and disembarked next to the partially stacked and buried bones of…

“Commander?” He wished it had not been Velanna’s voice that called on him first. One of his boots had sunken into the black sand and stone next to the blackened bones of one body, disturbing the ground enough to show him the faint, moisture-eaten weave of blue fabric brushed with fake gold.

Apprentice robes.

“We continue up the beach and circle back around to the east, along the water.” He stated coldly, ignoring the sudden weight and awkward hold of his armour and looking up past his companions to the tower itself. He cast his arm up the way he meant. “If we feel like being adventurous, we scale the sloping wall to the Enchanters’ gardens, or we keep walking and find the external door to the tower. It’s the old Tevinter entrance, but even if it’s sealed we should be able to break it down.”

“Would it really be that easy to get into the garden?” Nathaniel asked, but it was Sephri who answered him as Soren used his staff as a balance and began to walk up the beach and around onto the worn-away stones of the tower’s base.

“Circles were never made to keep people _out_ , Captain.”

Mahanon had taken note of the bones and robes in the sand and was watching him, but turned away without saying anything stupid. The older man could keep his wrong impression of Soren and his feelings about dead clans to _himself_.

The apprentices who had died on the beach had fled from the direction Soren was walking now, so unless the Templars had locked the way again after the Annulment, then the passage would still be open.

Morrigan crossed the windy grey sky and folded her wings in with a gust of black smoke that revealed her true form again. She landed just a few yards ahead of him, at the highest point of the rise, and watched him approach.

She said nothing. He said nothing. There was nothing that needed saying. He passed her and she watched him and he didn’t like it and he wanted to finish this fruitless task of hers and _go home_.

He shouldered his staff and let it catch on the hook under the flat back of his shield. He always wore it but despite Mahanon’s interest, he rarely used it. Perhaps whatever they were going to find inside waiting for them would be so unlucky as to let him practice his shield-technique on them.

“I could scout ahead?” Nathaniel called out, trying to be useful although Soren knew not _why_.

“Would you have any idea where you’re going?” Soren asked him.

“Not headfirst into dangerous ruins, but I’ll concede the point, ser.” Good, because Soren felt _stupid_ for coming down on him over it. Nathaniel was a hunter. _His job was to scout._

He stopped with the Circle’s towering stone body leaning perilously over his head, closed his eyes, and made himself breathe under his tight, closely folded helmet. The silverite was settled too hard against his skull, the pads inside and his own thin hair failing to hold the weight of it.

“It will be a straight corridor from the doors, until we reach the main reception hall.” He told them, pulling together the memories of floors and rooms to excuse his own extended pause. “From there it will be a split in two directions: into a Templar audience chamber to the left, or into the main body of the tower where the mages lived. The first floors will be the Apprentice quarters and dining hall, then the chantry and library, then the mages, enchanter and senior enchanter quarters, and then the Templar quarters near the top of the tower before the Harrowing chamber.”

No one said anything. Good.

They found the doors cracked and partially open. The Annulment had not done this: the Wardens under Oghren’s command had broken the Templar seal and forced their way inside in their search for Kieran last year. He refused, point blank, to squirm and squeeze his way through those cracks and into the tower: he made Velanna pull the stones apart and force the opening wide enough to walk through.

He had never, not _once_ crawled into Kinloch Hold. The Maker Himself could not have forced him to stoop his shoulders now.

“I don’t like this…” Velanna murmured as they entered, leaving the grey daylight behind. A fetid, skin-stretched corpse was on the floor to greet them, clad in moulded green robes.

“The Templars did not clean up after themselves, it seems.” Morrigan made her airy comment and Soren did not want to hear _any_ of them speak right now, venom pooling in his mouth.

“They were _Templars_ ,” he repeated. “The only ones who ever did any cleaning were the Tranquil.”

They walked. Less than ten yards from the Tevinter door they found the arches and stairs that he knew led down to the ruined docks and sunken boats. Mahanon held his hand out and a soft green light bloomed from the air: a docile spirit pulled far too easily through the Veil to bob gently through the air and bring back any notice of lurking threats. Nathaniel made a comment over his preference for Darkspawn, which he could sense, rather than undead, which none of them could feel coming.

“Undead are louder,” Sephri told him as Mahanon’s spirit informed them that there was nothing down that way, “But the Commander is right: without the Tranquil to bully about, I’m not surprised they didn’t bother with pyres or rites for the innocent people they slaughtered.” Soren nearly hissed at her to _shut up_.

This was wrong. The air was wrong, the shadows were wrong, the filth pooling in corners and sliding down the walls was wrong. That painting should not have been crooked, that statue not covered in mould: this was the visitor’s path to the Fereldan Circle of Magi, and it should never have looked _like this_.

The torches should have been lit: blue mage fire by the doors, then yellow, then amber, then normal red flames in two cauldrons fed by dried wood and charcoal to warm the Templars ever vigilant at the end of the hall where it split as Soren had described. To the left to the office of the Knight Captain of Kinloch Hold and his waiting room for visiting dignitaries, a place Soren had only entered and sat in twice: once after the Blight, again before Irving’s funeral. Plush velvet cushions dyed magi blue and decorated with white Templar gilt. Burning fires, wooden carvings of the Chant of Light, warmth and gold and luxury for anyone important enough to breach the Mage’s sanctuary.

Sephri insisted they check it, however briefly, to ensure nothing possessed by an unwelcome spirit came rattling up behind them as they passed. Mahanon was watching him and Soren felt himself _bristle_.

Tattered wall hangings. Broken hearthstones. Shattered furniture. Cold air, damp walls, and the half-burned and rotted body of a figure clad in plain grey robes and no upper body left to speak of: a Tranquil.

Soren left the audience chamber before Nathaniel finished his little prayer. The gorget around his throat and under his breastplate was _much too heavy…_

The Knight Commander’s desk was in shambles, broken and then burned. One of the cauldrons had melted, both metal dish and the stone alter gone. The other had toppled. Andraste’s stone face on the wall had been painted with something once red, now black and flaking off: blood from the hand of either a bold and sacrilegious mage, or a Templar whose faith had shattered with the Circle she had sworn to protect.

Through the great stone door, the furthest Morrigan had ever passed into the tower and a place Soren could count the number of times he had walked: in once as a child, out as a Grey Warden Recruit; in again during the Blight, out with Irving and the surviving mages; in after the Blight to learn of his fate in the Circle, out after being made Archmage and told to leave; in one more time for Irving’s funeral, out when it was over; in, now, for the last time.

Today was the ninth time he had passed through this door. Today was the first time it did not bring him home.

This was not home. Home did not smell like this. Home did not look like this. Home did not _feel_ like this.

This was a _ruin_.

He had seen enough of them and never cared, never wondered, never stopped and thought _‘who lived here?_ ’. The screaming echo of a lost child in overgrown ruins deep in the Brecilian forest; the warbling and forgotten voices of Dwarven warriors defending their doomed thaigs; broken windows and cold writings in abandoned Warden outposts. Now Soren was standing in another ruin, a ruin like any other he had explored, trampled through, looted and raided and smashed through and desecrated.

But this time he _knew_.

The sword at his belt caught and hissed before sliding free and plunging right through the dry, rattled chest of a stumbling corpse.

“ _Maker_ take you-” He hissed, hating the raw sting in his eyes before his rage found his hands and the flames coiled down his arms, over the hilt, along the sword, and _consumed_ age-blackened flesh and the hairless scalp of the possessed body. Filth-crusted mage robes erupted and burned away, flesh turned to ash, and he nearly turned back to swear at Morrigan when cold cut past his arms and tore the beast away from him to die again on the floor.

“Do not storm ahead so rashly,” she scolded him and he _ignored her,_ shaking his sword arm and hating the twinge of unfamiliar pain down his shoulder and bicep. He was not a _swordsman_ , and hadn’t fortified himself before doing that.

“You wanted to be here, and now we are here,” he hissed back at her, and made sure it _stung_. He knew. He _knew_ where he was standing. He knew who had lived here. _He_ had lived here. “Wherever you think the tower’s secrets are hiding, Morrigan, tell me so I can take us there and _be gone_ from this place.”

He saw Mahanon watching them from several yards back in the dank murk, the Dalish elf’s armour glittering softly from the green presence of his wisp.

Sephri thought she heard something, Soren did not _care_. Velanna pleaded caution, and Nathaniel slipped like silence through the ajar door down the hall just so nothing could follow behind them. The room was the warm, comfortable space where mage children were carried by the Templars. The table where they ate their first hot meal from the kitchens, the bed where they slept if their arrival was too late at night. The rug where they sat as the First Enchanter made a small cut into their hand and took the blood for their Phylactery.

Smashed. Cold. Heartless cave of four stone walls and the black maw of a ruined fireplace. Small bones in a small bed pinned in place with a rusted sword.

Soren hated them for searching. He did not join them. He stayed out in the fucking hall where the air was cold and his sword kept burning with crimson flames that drowned out the soft green light of that fucking wisp.

“What are these names on the wall?” He nearly stormed away from Morrigan when she invaded his space with words, but he answered her: he was looking at it anyways.

“Mages who died in service of Ferelden, Thedas, and Andraste during the Blight.”

“Would they have thought of their sacrifice the same way?”

“What does it matter? They’re _dead_.” He’d just _said_ that.

She approached the wall where it curved away from the Magi door and spread down the corridor a short ways, ending at a particular statue Soren did not look at. She touched the names with her bare fingers, and he kept his gaze focused where he had been looking in the first place.

“Some of these people would have fought with you in Denerim.”

“Others died at Ostagar,” he agreed, “But most succumbed to Uldred’s blood magic and mania.”

“Most, including-?”

“Don’t.” He saw her moving and stopped her. She was subtle, but precise. “Don’t touch his name.”

“Has his place in your heart grown so deep that you will no longer speak his name, or permit others the sight of its written form?”

“If you asked me here to give baseless jealousy a place to flourish, Morrigan, then it’s disgusting.” He was harsh with her damn it because this was _wrong_. “He’s _dead_. Move on, woman, and find your damn books so we can go home.”

“And leave you weeping at the sight of a dead man’s name carved into a cold wall?”

“I am _not_ -” He stopped himself, hated himself, and then barked at the others to quit wasting time and come out of that damned room.

He stormed away from the wall so he didn’t have to see or acknowledge how Morrigan took a rubbing of the words ‘ _Magi Eadric Telaren 9:10-9:31 Dragon, bravely taken by Malifecarum._ ’, or that Mahanon drifted next to her and read the same inscription. Why she _bothered_ was not only _beyond him_ but also _insulting_ to common decency!

“I don’t think he wants to be here…” A _game-changing_ contribution, Nate.

He walked on and Morrigan followed him closer than the rest.

“You will carry yourself into a trap, is that your intention?”

“It’s not a trap if I know it’s there,” he bit back, and she huffed at him with her staff tapping on the stone floor with every other step.

He wasn’t walking into a formal, planned out trap or attack. The tower hosted undead: the corpses of fallen mages which had been preyed upon by spirits and lesser demons curious about the pain and echoing horrors revealed to them by the thinness of the Veil around the former Circle. They’d encountered one, and would find more, and if they neglected to go through each room carefully then their noise would draw the ones they passed to investigate from behind. Their party would be flanked and forced to fight in more than one direction at a time: a trap.

“If you would only admit to what is wrong then you would not feel so compelled to hide it.”

“We are traipsing through the bloodied, decrepit ruins of the place where I grew up, Morrigan. I didn’t take you for a simpleton who needed such things _admitted_ to her.” Just how much of an explanation was he expected to provide, exactly?

“So you will cry neglect on my part, whilst dodging the accusation that you are hiding how this hurts you.”

“What would you have me do, wander the halls sobbing and wailing like a lost child?”

She stopped walking. He stopped walking. _What_ was her obsession with these awful matters?

“Is that what you want?”

“ _Andraste’s Ashes,_ Morrigan no!”

She closed her eyes and waved a hand at him.

“ _Want_ was not the correct word,” she amended, but he wasn’t ready to- “Is that what you _feel?_ ”

“ _Enough_ ,” he hissed back at her. “There are undead crawling about and the Veil thin enough to tear under its own weight, Morrigan. We are going to find the library, the First Enchanter’s office, and try our hand at entering the basement levels where the Circle’s valuables and artifacts were kept, and then we are going _back_ to Vigil’s Keep.”

 _“If_ the Veil should tear,” she countered him harshly, “As it is likely to with so many mages present and ready with their magic, then _you_ need to be more forthcoming about what this place is doing to you. You _cannot_ enter the Fade in your current state, Soren; you will embarrass yourself in front of your Wardens.”

He nearly threw down his sword at _her gall-_

“Then they should never have come with us!” He shouted, “And I should never have come with you! And _you_ should never have wanted to come in the first place! Quit lecturing me, Morrigan! Focus on the situation you’ve put us in, and put your cruelty to rest!” There was a tone.

Audible. A sound that threaded under his ears, across his cheeks, and wound itself around the base of his tongue before escaping back out of his mouth. It chased the sound of the word that had passed his lips, it bounced through the air like an echo and scratched after the clip and pull of sound.

 _Cruelty_.

“Shit-”

 _Cruelty_.

“Ready yourselves!” Nathaniel shouted, because even _he_ could hear it coming.

The veil didn’t _tear_ , it _strained_. What was supposed to be far became close. What was loud became quiet. What was evanescent became immediate and _real_.

Soren felt Duty’s shield come down behind him like a real piece of steel and strength. He closed his eyes as his awareness of magic swelled and the cold water forever flowing and spinning through his soul rose up with the immediate presence of the Fade.

Inhale.

Duty swung a sword of superior will down in the Fade, and Soren mimicked that strike in this world: his sword enflamed and in-hand before carving down straight and brutal through the head of a moving, rising body of decayed flesh. The spirit screamed on one side and the corpse collapsed on this one.

Exhale.

His arm tried to take his staff down, it was a conscious decision that unhooked his shield instead. It rested comfortable but heavy on his forearm, braced by the strength of his vambrace and gauntlet, his pauldron raised and brought forward to cover more of his head as he tucked his chin down. Feet spread, knees bent.

Inhale.

 _I will not move._ Magic that sparked between his shoulder blades, opened like a spout in his mind and poured cold and invigorating down his spine. _I will not buckle._ Less mystic power, more of the same unflagging will that caused the air to burn on his command, mended torn flesh with a gesture and thought. _I will remake what I will of the world to make it so: you cannot move me._

Corpses were moving, doors opening and shadows advancing. _Cruelty_. It kept echoing, bouncing off the walls, resonating with spirits on both sides of the Veil: the curious and trapped and tainted.

_It was cruel._

_It was cruel._

_The swords the rites the rituals the deaths the reasons the reality-_

“ _Shut up-_ ” A one-eyed shade of inky black skin, gaseous and reeking of sulphur. It skated through the air for him and met his shield’s burning face with a horrified scream and recoil. He pushed down with his shoulder, followed through: carved the sword down and through oily flesh that recoiled like shadow from the flames.

Twisted crimson light spun across the floor and grappled with the beast, and Soren turned from Morrigan’s curse-work to pivot and block a staggered, stumbling attempt to stab him with a short dagger in a moulded hand. He felt the old iron scratch the shield but a bolt of rapid blue lightning from Sephri dashed through its chest and left it too weak to stay standing.

_It was cruel._

Whispers like flies milling over rotted flesh. Gnats buzzing behind his ears trying to find purchase in his hair to anchor down and _bite_.

Another shade, fast and fluid and immune to Nathaniel’s barbed arrows: _On the beach, in the black sand, in the night. Trying to escape. Poisoned water filled my mouth and then the sword and the blood and I drowned, I **drowned-**_

Corpse, Enchanter’s robes, eyeless and screaming: _I was asleep. I was in my bed. They took her. They killed her. Then they killed-_

Bones, nothing but bones twisted and distorted so it couldn’t stand. It crawled and scrambled like a four-limbed spider across the floor, gripping the furniture with fingers and toes: _I heard the screaming. I hid. They found me. They locked me in. The hunger-_

 _Chantry_ robes? A lay-sister with bloodied skin and distended jaw filled with too many blunt teeth, howling: _He said he would protect me. He said he loved me. The baby was his. The sword was his. In the chaos he turned-_

They were not flanked: they weren’t far enough into the tower for there to be any unexplored rooms behind them. What happened was the use of a word too strongly tied to the emotions resonating through the Veil that whipped the spirits into a frenzy and brought the clamouring, staggering, disturbing hoard down to bear on them.

The Veil _strained_ and it its fibers _stretched_ so wide and thin. The air began to bleed with mist, the stones bending with a nauseous sense of vertigo. It didn’t tear and they did not enter the Fade, but magic became so much easier and Nathaniel’s arrows followed his mind more than his sights, brought his will to vanquish and kill further to bear than simple iron and wood should have achieved. Not something to complain about, really.

_It was cruel…_

Soren shook his head harshly when the sounds of stumbling, garbling beasts finally tapered out. He was sweating heavily under his helmet, his hair wet and coiled down his neck. His body didn’t hurt but he knew it would start if he released the magic holding him in form. He was not, in fact, a guardsman or chevalier, and once the magic holding his shoulders up and his back straight was allowed to fade his body would not bruise, necessarily, but it would let him know what it thought of being used like this.

So he didn’t release the spell, he didn’t have to: he was strong enough to keep his focus for hours if necessary.

“I hate the Fade…” Nathaniel grumbled behind him.

“We’re not in the Fade, the Veil is just _very_ weak here.” Velanna corrected, and Soren looked behind him where the others were coming down slowly from their own aggressive runs. Morrigan’s jaw was still tightly set as it always was when she held dangerous, caustic threads of magic between her fingers. Mahanon had all but vanished from sight through the loose weave of the Veil, robed in green clouds that rolled gently off his body when he moved, a kind of spell-power based on primal schools Soren himself had little experience with. Sephri was ready, bouncing on her toes with an angry look directed at the floor, her fingers curling and flexing as she spun threads and dismissed them just as quickly.

They weren’t injured, or if they were then they were able to manage it themselves.

_My friend,_

The veil was so thin that the mental act of looking for Duty became an actual turn of Soren’s head. He wasn’t supposed to be able to _see_ Duty, but the faint, barely-blue outline of a tall human in armour was still present before his eyes. Like a shadow standing filled in and independent of a wall, Duty was there.

“Is there a demon controlling the tower?” He asked his question and Duty was quick to give an answer:

_Although demons abound in places where two worlds weep to become one, you stand now in a domain so heavily populated that there is no one ruling presence. Many are gathered here, many linger, others search though they know they will never find what they seek. Their distress is their chain and their sustenance. The place where once there was love, and loyalty, and kindness, and hope, and justice, and diligence, and duty, and command, and respect, and wisdom; just as there was lust, and enslavement, and cruelty, and despair, and vengeance, and exhaustion, and compulsion, and terror, and fear, and pride-_

“Duty!” He interrupted, finally.

_Now there is only absence. Now there is quiet. Now there are memories with only spirits to remember them. The lives are all gone and the stories have ended. Only the echoes remain._

“Is there no way to release your fellow spirits from this place?” Morrigan wasn’t supposed to see or hear Duty unless they were in the Fade, but even-

 _“It is a compulsion,”_ the spirit… answered? “ _They will remain until the last of the echoes are beyond even their hearing, but then their own distress will garner the attention of others still. Should the Warden Commander die within this place, I too shall remain duty-bound to remain and remember.”_

“The what-?” Soren repeated dumbly. “You haven’t called me that in years, Duty.” And its _voice_ \- “You’re not... supposed to _sound_ like you do. You’re a spirit, not a man.”

“ _That is correct,”_ His voice _was_ more defined, too defined, too _familiar_. “ _But in this place where the Veil is more a net, I am as I am as you remember me, Warden._ ”

“Don’t do this,” Soren didn’t know if he meant to speak it or not, but it came out as a plea and either the soft sound of his voice or reality of what was happening made the sweat on his body go cold. “Duty, go back.”

Duty folded his arms with the command, tucking his steel-clad fingers under the cold, sharply defined ridges of his pauldrons.

“That’s _Templar_ armour! _”_ Sephri shouted, her staff awakening with a loud hiss and snap to reflect how weak the veil was. Soren couldn’t find his voice to command her to stand down.

“I wear the armour of this place, and this Mage,” Duty announced in a strict voice, speaking high in the back of his throat with a straight-laced tone, an educated Fereldan accent cutting his words. “I reflect his memories and his values. I am a Spirit of Duty, possessed of a form of one my companion considered an emblem _of_ Duty Well Served.”

“No Templar _ever_ deserved that distinction!” Sephri stormed up next to him and Soren remained voiceless, watching the details begin to form and fill in.

“Reality is a subjective experience,” the Spirit quoted in that brisk voice. “What is believed, what is held to and valued and cherished, that is what truly matters.” The silver and black of his short beard. The sweat-stains down his cheeks. His crooked nose and tired green eyes. The buff and polish marks on his breastplate, the frayed hem of his crimson robe. The sword. The gauntlets. The… _safety_ that came from him…

“Commander, this is a _demon!_ ”

“No, it’s not,” he finally spoke, and he felt _wretched_ for it. He couldn’t yell at Morrigan this time, he had no one to blame but himself. “Warden Sephri, stand down. This is a Spirit of Duty, compelled by the nature and memories of Kinloch Hold to represent itself as Knight Commander Greagoir of the Fereldan Circle of Magi.”

“Not so,” Duty corrected him, dropping his arms and wagging a finger at him the way Greagoir always had at wilful apprentices. “I am compelled by the nature and memories of my friend and companion, Irving’s Apprentice, to appear and to speak thusly. If I were to obey the notions and suggestions of the realm at large, I would certainly adopt the face and form of the Hero of Ferelden.”

They were _all_ looking at Soren. He could feel their attention and yet couldn’t pull enough of his away from Grea- from Duty. Words offered themselves up but most of them were stupid, sentimental things. He said what was proper of him, what he would have told the real Knight Commander anyways:

“My titles are Warden Commander of Ferelden; Hero of Ferelden and Blightqueller; Arl of Amaranthine; and Archmage of the College of Enchanters. You will refer to me properly, Duty, regardless of the face you wear. I haven’t been an apprentice for many years.”

“Is the title _Warden_ , appropriate?” Duty asked him. Yes it was.

Soren felt subdued by how the Veil had thinned so dramatically. He looked to the others to know if they wanted to continue this errand of Morrigan’s or turn back, and the agreement was to press forward. Duty did not wear a helmet, Soren could only remember seeing Greagoir wear his during the Battle of Denerim and the piece itself wouldn’t have much effect anyways. Duty took down his shield and drew his sword, and he was tangible enough in all ways for Soren’s enchantment to leap from his own sword to the Templar steel.

They cleared the first floor dining hall and proceeded upstairs without incident, Duty charging ahead whenever something began to move and striking down and out at most anything that came close enough to be a threat. Sephri didn’t come any closer to trusting that Duty was exactly what Soren called it, but it was Mahanon, constantly watching the spirit sprint ahead and then return to them, who asked the next question.

“Why is it doing that?” His voice caught Duty’s attention, grey brows raised, face open in the face of what it considered a valid query. “Protecting us?”

“Because you are mages,” Greagoir’s voice told them. “It is only fitting that, in the form of a Templar, I should fulfill the duties of one. The protection and safekeeping of mages is secondary only to the protection of innocent peoples without magic. As there is only one of such description present and he is allied with the rest of you, then my obligations are unchanged. None shall fall before I.”

Sephri was thoroughly disgusted by this declaration and Soren didn’t challenge her or the things she said to herself and the others about it. He had his own betraying sense of warmth building in his skin and slipping across his throat and let it strangle him. He knew where Duty had found those words and he remembered the Knight Commander speaking them clearly, for both mages and Templars to hear. The reality of the Circle hadn’t mattered at that point: any abuses Greagoir had ever seen, he’d stopped.

“How charming,” Nathaniel drawled from behind them, “It thinks I can’t fight. Commander, is there something you’ve been needing to tell me?”

That was a faithful belief Soren wouldn’t surrender until he died, any evidence to the contrary be damned.

“Commander?”

“Yes?”

Nathaniel had to repeat his question before Soren actually heard it. He was distracted by the bloodied prayer nooks in the Chantry, the pews hiding fallen bodies that Duty cut down a second time before they could fully rise. One, in apprentice blue, was bent over a familiar wooden podium with a sword still through their back: Duty took the head off and the corpse went back to laying there in forced supplication.

He answered Nathaniel, but didn’t know what he said. Morrigan asked him another question before they left the cold Chantry.

“Where did you sleep?”

“Pardon?”

“As an apprentice,” she clarified, but he felt slow and muddled by the intense weight of the Fade and the old death around them. “Where was your dormitory? I presume they did not give each apprentice their own private room.” The question should have outraged him, instead he just felt tired.

“Oh, there were four.” He didn’t struggle to remember, he struggled to get the breath to speak the rest of his answer. “First and second floors, split by age. Thirteen and older on this floor, twelve and under downstairs. Mage chambers were hardly private since they had no doors, but they were walled off a bit from each other. I only had mine for a few nights before Duncan took me from the tower.” You were fine without privacy when you never had it to begin with. The near silence of the mage chambers had been almost nauseating after a lifetime of living twenty to a room.

“Would you know your bed if you saw it?” She pressed him again and Soren didn’t know why either of them bothered speaking to each other.

“You’re not even trying to pretend this whole thing was ever about anything except me.”

“Then answer my question so we may take you back to the inn and you can rest.” He was too _tired_ to be mad at her for calling him weak; for using that soft voice on him and acting so concerned. He was just _disappointed_. “Soren…”

“This way.”

His feet did more leading than Soren himself. He knew the way like he knew where his staff hung or how his magic lay. The watery sensation of his magic was so filling and cold that it was swirling under his chin rather than down between his ribs, so it felt more like floating back to the dorms rather than walking.

An enchanter’s shambling golden corpse met Duty’s sword and the sharp edge of Geargoir’s shield. There were three open stone doors to the boy’s dormitory and the same across the hall for the girls.

The beds were stacked one on top of the other, the top bunk accessible by a simple ladder or some clever climbing. Many were smashed, most shifted from struggle during the Annulment. Few corpses, but they were children: too many corpses.

Corpses Kieran’s age.

Far, far too many corpses.

He was going to be sick. He realized it at the last possible moment and held it back, refused to breathe or to move. When Nathaniel had the _unbridled gall_ to put a hand on his arm Soren couldn’t twist or fight back because if he did he would lose his focus and vomit. And for that matter he would lose the concentration on his spell; he’d drop the magic fortifying his limbs and he would just fucking collapse on the floor.

So he did not move and he did not breathe and he did not tell his friend to get his _fucking hand_ off of him. He just stood there, and he closed his eyes and breathed in the stale, dusty, moulded air of the silent crypt.

The dorms should not have smelled like this. They had never been fresh or fragrant; shoving thirty or more teenaged boys into one large chamber was never going to smell _good_. But there should have been the astringent smell of the laundered bedding, the warm musk of worn blankets, the full odour of ink, of sweat, of the bath soaps in the wooden tubs, of hidden food slowly going off, of Chantry incense, of forgotten potion reagents accidentally dropped or spilled by some innocent young fool. Dorms did not smell like ruins. This room should not have smelled like _death_.

“It’s okay,” Nathaniel spoke to him softly but it wasn’t soft enough for a _silent room_ where _everyone_ could hear him.

“ _None_ of this is okay, Nathaniel.” If Soren ever met Grand Enchanter Fiona again, he would need neither sword nor magic to _tear her head from her shoulders_ … but his anger wouldn’t take. There was nothing for it to catch on and the Fade was _so heavy_ around them…

Sephri had already entered and left with Velanna: Soren could hear her crying and the two women speaking quietly in the hall. Mahanon was wandering between the beds, looking about at the forgotten signs of what had once been a living, breathing part of the Circle. Abandoned books, piles of socks, unmade beds, hanging shirts, half-written assignments…

Soren’s face was wet but he couldn’t reach up to clear his eyes without acknowledging that the tears were real and uncontrollable. He couldn’t keep his breaths, when he took them again, from shaking and catching in his chest. He wanted to scream. He wanted to _weep…_

“Do you remember which bed you slept in?” Morrigan asked him the awful question and Soren closed his eyes again, biting his tongue to keep from wailing at her to just _stop this_ and let them _leave_.

“Yes,” he finally, in agony, told her. And it took only a few minutes to… no. Yes? Third column from the left, two rows deep. This wasn’t the right bed. Third column and two rows deep, but it wasn’t the right bed?

He checked the floor, kicked aside an old potions’ kit full of rotted and expired reagents. No, that was the cracked tile with the missing corner, always in sight when he’d been on his elbows in bed reading something. This was the right spot. This was _not_ the right bed?

Eight years between when he’d last seen it and when the Annulment had come. Wear and tear could have _added_ damage to it but where were the fingermarks Jowan had worn into the top bunk? Where were the black sigil marks Soren had practiced on the ladder? In the younger dorm Soren had slept in the top bed over Eadric, when he’d finally caught up to his cohorts and been moved to the second floor he’d been placed in the bottom bunk under Jowan.

He knelt in front of the bed and made sure, made absolutely certain, that this was the wrong bed: he grabbed the base of it where the formari had carved the Circle emblem for decoration. Four fingers behind, thumb at the opening of the circle. A touch of magic, and… nothing?

“This is where I slept, but not in this bed.” Maybe… it had probably been smashed or destroyed during Uldred’s massacre. Soren hadn’t had the time or emotional stamina to go back and check.

“What possessed you to kneel like that?” Morrigan asked him as he stood again.

“Our bed had a secret compartment in it,” he explained. “Most of them did, but not always in the same place. The smaller one I had downstairs had a hollow post you opened by whispering certain words to it, this one had a button and lock you used a weave of simple magic to open.”

“The Templars let you keep such secrets?” Mahanon asked, having returned from his brief inspection of the dorm.

“I always assumed they were more for hiding things from other Apprentices: food or small treasures and the like.”

“Did you leave anything behind in yours?” He didn’t know what possible kind of answer she thought he’d give.

“By _treasures_ , Morrigan, I mean a funny smudge of wax or a few chips of glass. Maybe a pretty button.” She didn’t roll her eyes or look away from him for that answer, so he addressed the real question. “Anything I _did_ leave, whoever took the bed after me would have found and done what they willed.”

“We could search for it,” Mahanon suggested and Soren made sure to frown very openly.

“ _Why?_ ” The infuriating answer to his question was how Mahanon looked to Morrigan, who said it was _a fine idea_. His temper tried to catch on their loitering whims, but failed again. “Fine _…_ ” He wanted to _leave_.

This was pointless: the bed could have been destroyed during the massacre, it could have broken from wear-and-tear, it could have been destroyed by the Annulment. They were doing nothing but wasting time with this. Nathaniel was the only one who could not check the beds because, as Duty had already said, he wasn’t a mage. While Soren and the others checked through the boy’s dormitory, he could hear the scout striking up an awkward conversation with the spirit.

“So… you’re the spirit that makes the Commander a Spirit Healer, right?”

“Yes. I am Duty, companion to the Consort of the Inheritor.”

“Which is another odd name for Lady Morrigan… But you help him heal, right?”

“I offer assistance and structure to spells of his own making and power. In exchange, I fulfill my purpose as an expression of Duty.”

“Right. Well, for what it’s worth: thank you for my leg, and probably my kidneys and lungs at some point too.”

“No thanks are required, only the fulfillment of purpose.”

The bed was not here. It would not have been taken downstairs because the size of it had been the entire point of the two rooms: a nine year old child did not need a bed as large as an nineteen year old man, even one a short as Soren.

For no properly given reason, they searched the girls’ dormitory across the hall next. Another thirty beds, two of which had been smashed during the Annulment. The fourth bed they tried, Velanna found it.

The circle emblem was pressed and fired with a small charge of magic, and the wooden panel simply pushed to the side and revealed a nook only as large as a hand-print, and maybe an inch and a half deep. Soren was more preoccupied with the grooves along the top bunk where nervous fingers had rubbed away the stain and down into the wood, or the shiny imprints of old glyphs revealed by wiping away the stale dredges of settled ash and smoke.

“Is this yours?” Velanna took his attention away from what mattered and directed it to a small leather book with copper corners and an embossed copy of the Circle emblem. It was a standard apprentice notebook and a very stupid question.

“No,” he told her flatly. “I was Harrowed in the last month of nine-thirty, why would my notebook still be here when the Circle was annulled in thirty-eight?”

“As a keepsake? The apprentices would have known-”

“Velanna, I want you to open the front cover of that book, read the name, and give me a gold sovereign when you see it’s not mine.”

“ _Enough_ ,” Morrigan interrupted before Velanna could either take the losing bet or give up properly. The book traded hands and _Morrigan_ was the one to flip quickly through the yellow pages before finding the cover and reading aloud with: _“Studies of Amara Trevelyan, Chronicled nine-thirty-six, Apprenticed to First Enchanter Irving_.” And now _that_ …

 _“_ Oh, _now_ you’re interested,” Morrigan teased from over the book’s binding. He met her gaze briefly and ran his tongue quickly under his teeth.

“It doesn’t really say that,” he challenged her, but when he gestured to see the book she actually handed it to him.

Amara Trevelyan.

 _Huh_.

“Amara’s a religious name,” Sephri said, perhaps for Mahanon’s benefit as that was who she was talking to. “It’s common enough, but I _know_ Warden Guerrin was in a cohort with the First Enchanter’s apprentice while he was here.”  And that was what made it _interesting_.

“Anything useful in it? Or, sentimental I should say?” Nathaniel asked. “Anything that makes it worth taking home and keeping safe for Connor when he gets back?”

“I met her,” Soren interrupted the chatter and it silenced the Wardens around him. He was careful not to tear the soft paper with the pointed tips of his gauntlets, thumbing through the first two pages. “Once, briefly, when I came back to the Circle for Irving’s funeral.” He didn’t remember _her_ necessarily, but what she’d done and what she’d asked of him. Irving’s last Apprentice had been the only one he’d taken after Soren’s Harrowing and triumph over the Blight.

“Oh- _oh_ ,” Nathaniel had been with him for that trip, and was shaking his hands now trying to put words to memories. “The pretty ginger? The one who asked to be _your_ Apprentice?” Soren nodded and then let Nathaniel continue to explain it to the others.

“She had the whole speech planned out for when we arrived and she was brought to meet the Commander,” he recounted for them. “She didn’t even wait to get him alone or anything, Oghren and I were right there when she started demanding you take her on and continue her education as she said Irving would have wanted.”

“It’s not what Irving wanted,” Soren explained, not that he had a good reason for it. “His last letter for me specifically said _not_ to accept her, because it would have been like…” oh, what had the words been…? “Touching up a painting the artist has already left to dry and needed nothing but a seal to keep it safe. She was only a few months from her Harrowing, and I told her to send word to me in Vigil’s Keep after she completed it.”

“She never wrote,” Nathaniel said.

“She didn’t survive,” Soren finished, ending the discussion.

Quiet followed, and he looked down at the writings in front of him. The first page was dated mid-way through Justinian, in the summer of thirty-five.

He knew what he was looking at from the first small, tightly scripted letter of the entry:

_“the HEraldic traditions of ferelden are widely Known for theIr Simple but StratEgic purposes on and off the fielD of Martial EngagemenT. Otherwise regarDed As archaic and unnecessarY.”_

Poor show, to fail to hide the real entry at all- stopping mid-sentence? Not even putting together a coherent thought to mask the intended memory? He let his thumb fan the pages to near the half-way part of the diary, arriving in Harvestmere of thirty-six: just about nine years ago.

Much better, and not nearly as obvious. Soren read half a paragraph of properly phrased notations and essay samples before closing the book again, holding it carefully in his hand for a moment and judging the weight of it.

“I don’t know if it’s something Connor will _want_ , necessarily,” he admitted, “As this is his dead cohort’s diary, but I don’t see how it could hurt to at least offer it to him.” So yes, they would take it even if the book passed into Velanna’s hands first and she quickly skimmed the pages as he had. She pulled a face and looked at Soren again.

“Your mentor must have been quite the taskmaster if you consider history notes to be a diary.” He clicked his tongue at her.

“For shame, _Hahren,”_ he said, taking the book back, returning once more to the first entry, and tapping one sharp fingertip to the oddly rendered letters. “What else do you call a book where the first page reads, _‘He kissed me today’_?”

She gave him a dirty look for using that Dalish word on her, but then placed her staff in the crook of her arm and used both gloved hands to gently hold and re-examine the book again. She couldn’t be so blind as not to see it, but closed the book again with a grumble before stowing it safely in the satchel slung around her waist.

“Now if the rest of you are quite done looting a dead dormitory for childrens’ keepsakes,” Soren told his Wardens with the Veil still distorted and resonating quietly around them. “Either we move on and see if there’s anything actually worth all this trouble to collect, or we _go home_. Make your choice amongst yourselves, Duty and I are going to make sure there’s nothing skulking around in the corridor again.”

He left them to deliberate.

 


	32. A Total Sum

 

The work on the house and Ariyah’s recovery both progressed smoothly. Jylan’s sister spent the first full day in bed, in the presence of the alienage midwife, who occupied herself with several rounds of invasive questions for Jylan. These questions kept him from leaving the house or assisting Samar and Master Arainai, or from acquiring the necessary items to pen a letter back to Vigil’s Keep for Midwife Valora.

Surana asked for confirmation that he had been a mage. That he had been trained in the Circle of Magi. That he had been made Tranquil. That it had been a punishment. That the Rite had resolved him of all emotion, dreams, and magical ability. That the Rite had involved a brand infused with lyrium which had marked his forehead. That the brand hurt when touched by physical or magical means. That he had served in Kinloch Hold as a Tranquil for two years. That he had survived the annulment and war by fleeing to Amaranthine city. That he had been Tranquil for a total of nine years, now entering his tenth.

The questions Jylan did not consent to answer in his sister’s presence or at the behest of a stranger were: the precise nature of his duties as a Tranquil within Kinloch Hold, the precise nature of the circumstances surrounding his subjugation to the Rite of Tranquility, and the precise nature of the ritual itself. His indirect answers to these queries were as follows: that he had served the Templars and monitored the evening hours of the magical storeroom; that he had been led astray and proved inept at the political machinations of the Circle hierarchy; and that it had been unpleasant.

Ultimately Jylan was able to distract midwife Surana fully away from the topic of his nature by continuing with his work history: that he had served the Grey Wardens. That he had met the Hero of Ferelden.

The only questions he noted that she did not ask, despite numerous extended pauses on her end of the exchange, were regarding that final point. She did not ask after Archmage Surana’s appearance, his personality, his magic, his habits, the nature of his interactions with Jylan, or any other traits beyond _‘you do mean **the** Hero of Ferelden, don’t you?’_. The matter of their shared surname was not brought up between them.

He spoke instead, and at considerable length, of Connor Guerrin. How Jylan had been contracted to the Vigil, his duties, and his responsibilities all at Connor’s request. Connor’s history was discussed until Jylan felt his voice begin to falter from extended use: the Blight, Connor’s apprenticeship, their friendship, the annulment, what little Jylan was aware of from his time during the Mage-Templar War and his involvement with the Inquisition, followed by a sparse description of his recruitment into the Grey Wardens.

“But- didn’t he have anything to say when you left Vigil’s Keep to come here?” Midwife Surana pressed him.

“Warden Guerrin is at present deployed to the far north of Thedas, bound for the Grey Warden headquarters at Weisshaupt Fortress in the Anderfels. He doubtless made his arrival there several weeks ago, but departed Vigil’s Keep at mid-summer and will require a similar length of time to return to Ferelden at the conclusion of his business, should he return at all.” And then, in anticipation of her follow-up question: “To attempt to make contact with him before he returns to Ferelden would be a fruitless effort. I do not know the nature of his business and can make no estimate as to the duration of his visit within Weisshaupt or the Anderfels themselves. I do not know the route he will take from Weisshaupt or what detours may be required of him. I know of no viable communication method which could have a hope of reaching him.”

Midwife Surana was very quiet, seated on a chair in Ariyah’s bedroom, the only warm place in the house. She worried her hands together slowly, her gaze vacant and wandering.

“A letter would be waylaid and a messenger would charge an unspeakable amount to cross the entire _world_ …” she murmured, he presumed, for her own benefit. “But if he’s a mage wouldn’t the Grey Wardens have given him a sending stone?”

“While that may be a possibility, I do not know for certain if that is the case. Even if he does have a sending stone in his possession, I possess neither the magical ability nor a similarly attuned stone with which to establish such a connection.”

In low spirits, Midwife Surana departed shortly after the exhaustion of this topic. She left them with the pot of soup she had made for them and Jylan served both himself and his sister from the offering. The ceramic held heat well and the thin, brackish soup was still steaming gently as it was ladled out. Jylan was unfamiliar with the medicinal properties of burnt onion and pigeon meat, but it was warm and it resolved hunger, thus fulfilling two necessary criteria for soup.

“I don’t know how you can eat it,” Ariyah complained around twisted lips, frowning at him with clear disdain until he repeated the two positive aspects of the watery meal to her. His sister smiled, and then gave a fond laugh and told him to go downstairs and fetch a basket from the main room which contained her sewing.

Jylan checked repeatedly on the workmen, and took advantage of the general disrepair of the house to proceed with throwing the old rushes into the kindling box and sweeping away the collected dirt and sand. He removed the spice jars and dishes from the kitchen cabinets, permitting the men to come and break up the floor chasing the cracked pipe without concern for the rest of the kitchen wares.

By that evening Samar and Master Arainai returned with hot food but no sign of Saya or Rian. The infant was very cold despite spending the day against Samar’s body and wrapped in a thick woolen sling and scarf. The foundation had been repaired but the house was still open to the wind and cold despite the canvas sheets stretched across the great wound in the building’s side.

The children, with great protest, were taken with Samar and Master Arainai to the inn beyond the alienage. The infant was left with Jylan and Ariyah, who was too weak to leave the bed but managed to kiss each of her children on the forehead before they left.

Although he was not competent to care for his nephew, Jylan recognized the fact that Ariyah was physically unable to perform the necessary labour of undressing, bathing, changing, and feeding the small baby.

It was very small. His experience with infants was severely limited, but this one was very small. Thin. Babies were not supposed to be thin. Even Anu, who was very small, had chunky flesh on her arms and legs from the remains of her baby fat. The infant was thin. His pale skin was dry and the lard rubbed across his limbs did little to sooth the matter, his grip was not strong, and he did not cry or move very much even when handled by someone he had no reason to know.

They fed him soup and understandably the infant would not drink the onion and meat mixture. He could not eat the hot potatoes, butter, and sweet corn the rest of the family had dined on. The brazier in the room was not sufficiently hot to boil grain for oatmeal.

An infant this young should not have been given grains and vegetables in the first place. An infant this small still needed milk.

“Is there no wet-nurse available in the alienage?” A woman either recently given birth or still nursing her own child, who could take a second child to her breast as well.

“For a human child in _our_ family?” Ariyah asked, but her face was strained by the topic. “No. There are women but none of them would consider it. The shems take more from us than they’ll ever know, they can’t take our own mothers’ milk on top of it.”

“This infant is hardly to blame for the actions of Gwaren’s human population.”

“It doesn’t matter, Jeevan. Families feed their own mouths first, not strangers and human bastards.”

To acquire milk from a sheep or goat within the city would be expensive, but not impossible. He would have to make inquiries promptly to find a household with a goat or ewe still giving milk. Saya had been parted from her son for a month and may have stopped giving milk as a result. The true cold and harshness of winter had not yet struck: his nephew would die if they did not acquire proper food.

The next morning when the workmen arrived, Jylan ensured his sister was provided with hot tea and access to warm food from the larder. He then left the house with Dirthamen to purchase writing supplies for his letter and to make inquiries in the human neighbourhoods a significant hike away from the alienage.

The ink, quill, and parchment were easily acquired, along with a stick of plain white beeswax. The items amounted to a total of thirty bits, which Jylan broke a silver to pay the surprised merchant for. Copper pieces were more useful for everyday purchases, and he did not have enough of them.

It took another hour walking through slush and puddles before he found a household with a small, barely-green garden and an animal hutch. The door was slammed in his face. He knocked again and stated he had money. He was searching for milk. If the household had any available then he would give them several coppers for it. There was no answer.

At the second house he repeated his query and was yelled at with various profanities and racial remarks of inconsiderate nature. When he persisted, the second level a window was opened and a bucket of wash water was dumped down on him. Dirthamen was horrified by this treatment, and Jylan was similarly aware of the revolting smell of the water.

At the next house he was threatened with a kitchen knife to get off the family’s property and departed when Dirthamen put his ears down and began to growl at the threat.

Pre-emptively, Jylan approached a patrol of guardsmen. Dirthamen trotted up to the heavily armed humans with his pink tongue lolling, ears up and muzzle slobbery and friendly. The men were easily won over by the hound and Jylan, shivering under his wet cloak and fouled clothing, opened his hand with ten of the seventy copper pieces he was carrying with him. Did any of _these_ men know where he would find fresh milk for a sick child?

They laughed at him- until Dirthamen began to whine, and to beg, and to make pitiful, sorrowing noises and begin to go limp and heavy in the dirty street. The hound cried and made an awful fuss, retreating from the men who had just been petting and scratching his head and drawing their concern back to Jylan. The animal tucked itself behind his legs, slumped at his feet, begging ever more desperately.

He did not discourage the dog from this behaviour.

“Cap’in, the poor thing’s _dying_ ,” one of the guardsmen complained with sympathy. Jylan pulled two more copper from his purse and held the coins out.

“Please. I will do honest business if I am only shown where to ask.”

“Alright- _alright!_ Fine.” One of the men who was not the captain or the sympathetic youth spoke up, hands in the air. “Just- Maker, I can’t listen to the poor thing. Cap’in?”

“Make it _quick_ , and get the poor dog a bone while you’re at it.”

Jylan followed the guardsman and Dirthamen did not cease his desperate act as they walked. A door was approached, opened, and the guard spoke to the startled woman inside on a first-name basis. Jylan kept his eyes down at the freshly swept floor, careful not to cross the threshold into the warm home. Dirthamen lay at his feet posed so his dark eyes were noticeably wide and sorrowful.

He was questioned directly as to his need for milk from the woman’s goat. He stated that his sister’s milk had run dry a month ago and his nephew, born this summer, had lost weight and become too mellow and tired from losing too much weight, and become thin and pale from want. He would pay her once a week until her goat went dry or the child died.

He shocked her with this statement, though he did not know if it was the notion that he could afford a weekly payment to her as an elf, or the thought of a child’s death if she refused him.

“Andraste _said_ -” the guardsman started.

“Oh a _piss on you,_ James. Fine, _elf_. Show me your coppers.” Because he had shown twelve, the price was twelve. He asked if he could return next week with five coppers and the same bottle, and she gave him a very cross look before saying that yes, five coppers would suffice.

“Maker’s blessing on your family, Mistress.” He inclined his head, paid the money, and was given a bottle of milk.

Dirthamen received a large soup bone and several handfuls of pig-skin, which the hound happily gobbled down before taking his prize in his mouth and nudging it at Jylan, who carried the bone in his pocket.

He was cold and rank when he returned to the alienage, committed to spending the rest of the day washing his cloak if not the clothes he was presently wearing. Dirthamen’s high mood faltered when they returned to the house and found it just as cold as the alley outside. The hound shook himself and shivered, following Jylan upstairs to Ariyah.

“You _actually_ went and-!” He held the bottle to her, she took it immediately and asked no more questions.

Their nephew resisted the milk, even when it was warmed over the brazier, but once he began to drink it from Ariyah’s careful grip he resigned himself to the taste and suckled until his small belly was full. One bottle would not last an entire week, but it would feed him for the next few days, and would increase his chances of survival into summer and his naming day.

Jylan could not wash his clothes, even in cold water, because there was no fire to dry them near. He wiped off what he could of the cloak and then opened one of the trunks from Amaranthine, searching until he found and extracted a change of clothes. He changed his outfit completely for the first time in a fortnight. A bath would have cleansed his skin, but also left him even colder and thus susceptible to another fever as he had experienced back in the autumn weather.

The workmen were building up the fireplace, including an odd inclusion he did not know the purpose of on the house-hold side of the masonry. They worked diligently and with little concern for him or his attention. The kitchen now contained a trench two feet deep and two feet long, where a man was on his knees sawing away at something down there.

Samar and Master Arainai returned very early and came into the house where Jylan was cleaning his cloak. They were excited and in good spirits, and Samar ushered Jylan to the door as he simultaneously drew someone else across the threshold.

The third person was another male elf, shorter than Samar and thin with hungry cheeks. His hair was dark but washed with brown highlights, his skin not as dark but blushed to the point where it matched Jylan’s own complexion quite closely. He wore a long, dirty brown coat instead of a cloak and his green gloves had worn down so bare that his fingertips were all exposed, a scarf of similarly thin worn wool was tied around his throat. He had watery brown eyes and his thin mouth was hanging open, his hair chopped short around his long ears. There was no introduction, the other elf simply saw Jylan and fell on him.

It was meant to be an embrace but the stranger showed no hesitation or self-control in the matter. He simply walked into the house, raised his arms and threw his weight to Jylan’s chest, hugging him very tightly, hands clutching his shoulders and back. Jylan staggered and the stranger began to sob.

“ _You’re home-_ ” the man gasped, then choked, then wailed with his mouth pressed to Jylan’s shoulder. His clothing smelled sour and briny, indicating that he had been near the waterfront for some time. Jylan could not see his face but he felt hot breaths and the wetness of tears on his shoulder already. “ _You’re **home**_.”

“…Rian?” Jylan asked, looking at Samar and standing just off balance with his shoulders thrown back, one foot behind him to brace should the stranger shove him again.

Samar grinned but a few tears squeezed from his eyes. His brother- their brother, approached and clapped a hand on Rian’s sobbing back. He repeated the gesture on Jylan and then pulled his arms around the both of them for a tight, squeezing embrace that was not suited for three people, but persisted.

“Why-?” Rian was calmed to the point where he could stand on his own and look at Jylan again, hands cupping his face, stroking his cheeks, pushing back the unkempt tangles of his black hair. “Why didn’t you _write?_ I got- all I ever got was a letter from some Grey Warden and then another from Vigil’s Keep about the money- but you-? But you never wrote yourself, Jeevan, why _not?_ ” Oh.

He folded his hands together in front of him, elbows tucked in.

“It did not seem appropriate.”

“It didn’t-!?” Rian choked. “I’m your _brother_ , what do you _mean_ it wasn’t appropriate to talk to me!” He was becoming increasingly alarmed and Samar’s arms were knocked down away from them both.

“I do not have an appropriate answer to that question, just as I did not have a worthwhile contribution to make beyond the provision of my wages.”

“ _What the hell does that even mean!?_ ” Rian screamed at him and Samar quickly shoved his way between them.

“Stop- _stop_. What did I tell you on the way here? What did I say he’s like?” Rian tried to squirm past him, throwing a hand out at Jylan.

“That’s no excuse! Family isn’t something you can just throw money at and that’s it!”

“Well what kept _you_ from writing, smart-ass?” Samar shouted at him and Rian recoiled, but then came back with a watery-eyed shout.

“ _I did!_ And all I ever got back was a letter from some _Warden Gorin_ , or _Giron_ or whatever his name is, telling me someone named _Jylan_ didn’t want to upset me: well now I’m upset anyways!” That was very apparent to both of them. “And now- and now that’s all he’s doing, isn’t it? Throwing money around, huh? Just- shit on everything I do around here and-”

“Will you _cut_ the fucking pity parade already!” Samar shouted again, making Rian jump and stammer to a stop. “We got into port to find a filthy house, no food, no money, _you and Saya both fucked off_ , and the _etunashol_ was back in Ariyah’s life! So yeah, I want a fucking explanation for it all, Rian. We’re back home like you wanted, now quit shitting on your little brother and tell me what the hell happened!”

Rian stood there for a few seconds, petrified. Jylan noticed now that as the yelling and screaming had unfolded, Master Arainai had wandered to the cold fireplace and was sharpening one of his knives within sight of the workmen, who were sufficiently discouraged by his display not to eavesdrop- or at least to do so without being obvious. There was no sawing noise from the trench in the kitchen, and Jylan was able to verify with a glance that the workman in the hole was sitting there with his hands over his long ears, making a concerted effort to keep out of their business.

Rian burst into sudden, sobbing tears, and Jylan’s suggestion that they move this business upstairs fell on deaf ears.

“What’s going on down-?” Ariyah’s voice made him turn towards the stairs, where she was leaning on Dirthamen in the staircase with several blankets around her shoulders. When she saw Rian, she froze and forced herself up straight “ _You_.”

Rian’s crying increased in severity and volume with Ariyah’s presence, and Samar took him roughly by the scruff and one arm and dragged him upstairs. Jylan assisted Ariyah in also returning to the second floor to spare the family further embarrassment from the listening workmen.

They reached the room and closed the door before sudden chaos engulfed the small space. This was not a large enough room for such an argument and it became even smaller with Rian’s crying and Ariyah’s cursing and yelling. Dirthamen jumped and put his ears down flat, slinking as far under the bed as the large dog’s shoulders would allow, which was not far at all, so he retreated behind Jylan’s knees instead. Samar positioned himself between their brother and sister, his voice just as loud and shaking as Ariyah’s, and Jylan could not hear anything at all between the three of them.

It was loud. It was much too loud. His ears felt like they were trying to mimic Dirthamen’s by bending down.

He took Rian’s hand and pulled him out of the room with Dirth, and they went to Samar’s room instead where Jylan had spent the last two nights.

The yelling stopped. The crying did not: both Rian and the infant were inconsolable in the two separate rooms, but Samar was attempting to correct this when Jylan returned briefly to Ariyah’s room, took one of the bowls and two ladles of Midwife Surana’s foul soup, and returned with it to Rian.

“This- this is _awful-_ ” His brother gagged with tears still slipping from his pale eyes. He was sitting on the bed and he was not calm.

“It is no longer hot, but it is filling and will not make you sick. I do not know if that remains enough to quantify it as soup.” Rian made a noise between a laugh and a sob, then drew a weak smile across his face and handed the bowl back. Jylan refused to take it. His brother took another bitter gulp and made a foul face, shivering in disgust, and made a second attempt to return it. This time Jylan accepted and placed it on the dresser, then turned back around with his hands folded and elbows tucked to his sides.

“I understand from yours and Samar’s comments that the house is not typically in such a state of uncleanliness.”

“Maker, does Ariyah really strike you as the sort of woman to let her family live in filth?” He considered the question momentarily.

“No.” She was proud and industrious and caring despite her robust attitude. “What caused the change in the household?”

Rian scrunched his face up and pulled his lips into his mouth, tears beginning to gather again before he put his face down in his hands and breathed a long, shaken breath.

“That _baby…_ ” he uttered, then sat up again, looking to the wall and in pain. “She was making too much money for the job I’d found for her, but we didn’t question it, no one questioned it. But then she started coming home later and later, sometimes not until nearly dawn. She was coming back smelling like perfume and wine and sometimes was too drunk to get out of bed for work. It was threatening her betrothal to one of the young craftsmen in the alienage and the Hahren was handing down warnings- Samar says you’ve met him? He’s very particular, and he’d been looking for a way to fight back after the way Eli humiliated himself and was run off by Samar for his drinking. Saya got herself pregnant and the Hahren immediately cancelled her betrothal and took the dowry money Samar and I had raised up for her.”

“I am not familiar with alienage dowry practices,” Jylan admitted. “How much did the Hahren take from our family?”

“Oh- _Maker_ , I get sick just thinking about it…” Rian moaned and looked at him, shaking his head. “Ariyah’s was small. Mamae had been putting aside a few coppers every week since she was born, but when the Blight destroyed everything we needed that money to rebuild. I think Eli only got maybe ten silver for her and that’s why he lived here with us: we didn’t have the money for them to start their own household. Saya we were going to do right by: Samar’s wages, my wages, _yours_ too because the money had started in the Spring. I think we had nearly fifty pieces saved up, entrusted it to the Hahren, and lost it all when Ariyah realized what had happened. It was too late for Midwife Surana to do anything either, he’d quickened before we even tried…”

His brother rested his face in his gloved hands again by the time he finished his explanation. This gave Jylan several moments in which to process and think through what he had been told.

“As I said, my understanding of dowry practices is limited, but is a dowry not something that is only paid at the time of marriage? Should the money not have been returned to you and Samar?” Rian looked up, arms spread, and gave a lost laugh.

“On whose authority?” Rian asked him, “He’s the fucking _Hahren_ , you go to him for a judgement, he makes it, and that’s it. What do you want us to do? Go to the Bann of Gwaren for half a sovereign? As _elves?_ Dowries aren’t covered under the city’s laws, all they’ll have to do is take one look at us, say, _‘Why’d you stupid rabbits hand over that kind of money in the first place?’_ and either throw us out in the mud or into a cell for a beating.” He made a thorough and satisfying point. Jylan quietly considered this before moving on to his next question.

“As the child was born in mid to late summer, what was it which prompted you and Saya to leave the house last month?” Rian watched him quietly for a few minutes, and then his eyes went dark.

“Eli came back…” He murmured the words like they hurt. “Samar was waylaid in Amaranthine because of a hurricane- but you know better about that than I do. He couldn’t stop Eli from coming home and I’m- I’m not like Samar. I- I mean if there’s a fight I know to stay and do what’s expected but- but if it’s just _me?_ That- and Ariyah, she goes so quiet when he’s around. And the children…” There was shame trickling down his shoulders and bowing his head like cold rain. It was not pleasant to observe. “Saya and Ariyah’d been at each other’s throats since Saya refused to suckle her babe beyond the first month, how she said it would ruin her body and disappoint her clients. She was hardly eating enough to give milk in the first place: she wanted all the weight from the pregnancy to go away so she could get back to work…”

His brother dropped his head, and the rest of it came out as a mumble.

“When Eli came back and I couldn’t keep my nerve enough to tell him off, and Saya’s an embarrassment to the entire alienage, and Ariyah has her children and the Hahren breathing down her neck all the time… Eli and Ariyah both came down on Saya’s whoring and she lost her temper, storming off. I chased her- she’s my _little sister_ \- and I- I couldn’t stay under this roof with him around. Ariyah I’m fine with, she’s a good mother, a good sister, a good _matriarch_ , but Eli? He… he makes your skin crawl, everything he touches gets a greasy feel to it, it’s like living with a-”

“An _etunashol,”_ Jylan finished. A shitbug. Rian looked at him with a weak, miserable smile.

“An _etunashol_ that likes to shout and scream at your sister, and lay his fists on your nieces and nephews, and who tried to drown your little sister’s baby when he saw its pale skin and round ears… Bastard who takes every copper in the house and calls it his no matter if it came from his ship, or Ariyah’s washing, or my ledger, or even far away Amaranthine. I couldn’t stay here, and I couldn’t stay where Saya is, so I…”

He began to cry again, not as loudly, but he could only look at Jylan for a second or so between rough breaths. He was very ashamed, but more so: he was very tired.

“I collected your pay from Harvestmere, Jeevan. I’m the only one in the house who knows _how…_ ” Rian admitted this between heavying cries, losing his composure and his voice as he covered his mouth with his wrist. “I spent it- _nearly all of it_ , I’m so sorry- it’s a cheap inn, cheapest I could find and still have a bed, but it adds up- it’s adds up _so quickly_ and I couldn’t come back here- I’ve barely been able to go to work and if I _lose my job now I-_ ”

“You will return home and to work,” Jylan told him. “Samar and I arrived the night the _etunashol_ and Ariyah suffered a violent altercation and he has not attempted to return. If he does so, Dirthamen will bite him as the hound is much braver than you and I am susceptible to neither fear nor intimidation. I have decided, and heard no argument against, forbidding the children’s father from returning to this house, therefore he shall not return and if he does, Dirthamen will bite him.”

A loud, pleased panting noise opened up next to Jylan and he looked down to find Dirthamen now proudly sitting up straight beside him. The hound’s great muzzle was open and his tongue was beginning to loll out, ears up and breaths huffing past his floppy jowls and sharp teeth. Yes. Dirthamen would bite him.

“I take this is Dirthamen?” Rian asked in a rough, hiccupping voice. He smiled at the hound and Dirth trotted forward, putting his great paws on Rian’s leg and dwarfing his thighs with their size. He snuffed at Rian’s clothes and made a cranky noise in his chest, looked at Jylan, and then went back to snuffing and nosing at his brother.

“This is Rian,” Jylan told the dog. He approached the bed and laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder, looking at Dirth who was paying close attention. “Rian. Greet Rian.”

He had not anticipated the result of this command.

Dirth let out a loud bark, and then jumped with both paws on Rian’s shoulders. The hound easily overpowered the elf and squished him flat to the mattress, the dog licking his startled and protesting face before easing back, and dropping his full weight across Rian’s chest.

“ _Oh Maker- he’s heavy…”_ Rian groaned, and then lifted one gloved hand and rubbed the top of Dirthamen’s happy, panting, slightly dirty head. _“Hello… nice to meet you too…_ ”

“I would offer you a hot bath, Rian, but until the fireplace is completed I do not think that will be possible.”

“I saw… I saw all the workmen and everything. How are we affording all this work so suddenly? And what was that fellow doing in our kitchen floor?”

“Repairing the water pipe to supply the pump.”

“That- but, how are we _affording_ it all?

“I was sufficiently compensated for my time at Vigil’s Keep,” he answered. “I do not consider it prudent to sit on such a sum in light of my family’s house crumbling away and becoming uninhabitable. I will be less inclined to spend such sums once all immediate threats have been resolved.”

“So- so wait-!” Rian pushed Dirthamen off of him, which was more accurately described as Dirthamen consenting to be moved by Rian as he sat up. “You mean- you still have _more money_ after all this?”

“It is not infinite and will not replenish itself, but yes, for the moment: I do have more money.”

“How much?” Nine gold, eight silver, and ninety-eight copper. He did not say this.

“Enough to ensure our protection and survival for the foreseeable future. Barring, of course, outright catastrophe or disaster striking the alienage, the city, or both.” Rian crossed his fingers and held his hand up.

“Maker Willing,” he pleaded. “In the meantime then… is there anything _not_ awful to eat in this house?”

“There is cold food in the larder, as well as the rest of Midwife Surana’s soup.” Rian pulled a face and winced.

“It… was worth asking anyways.” Jylan did not fault him for doing so. Master Arainai had already cautioned him that people not accustomed to having wealth would seek to spend it quickly on brief pleasures. Jylan was immune to such temptations and desires. “I’ll go check the larder… If we drain the broth, will Dirthamen eat the meat and bones?”

“If he is hungry enough, Dirthamen will eat anything.”

Dirth made an unhappy noise on the bed, huffed despondently, and then rolled his filthy back across Jylan’s bedding.

Hm.

It would be good when the fireplace was repaired.

* * *

 

The final haul from Kinloch Hold, after too many hours with the string-thin veil and mounting corpses and echoing horrors of the dead Circle, were as follows.

The cipher-written diary of Amara Trevelyan, Irving’s final and failed apprentice.

A chest of lyrium, toppled but not damaged, in one of the storerooms. The value of the blue serum alone was arguably worth the cost and labour of getting to the tower. The chest was small enough for Sephri to carry herself without being too cumbersome, with a metal layer inside and strong locks to keep it shut.

Two books of Kinloch Hold’s Circle Alumni: all the Apprentices who had been successfully Harrowed in the island tower from 8:00-99 Blessed, and another from 9:00-38 Dragon, partially filled and abandoned with the Annulment.

“Commander, you were born in Gwaren?”

“Velanna, I told you to put that thing away and focus while we’re here.”

“ _I_ would know what is written of him.” Morrigan’s interruption and encouragement were both frustrating for him. “I always have wondered what the Circles deemed appropriate to note of its members.”

“Put it _away_ you two,” he repeated himself in a stricter voice. “Reading is what the inn is for.”

In the First Enchanter’s office there were many papers and important documents, yellowed from age, thrown across the floor. The First Enchanter had been in Val Royeaux or on the run from the Templars after the White Spire’s disastrous conclave when the annulment had struck Kinloch Hold, so he would not have been here to stop the Templars from rifling through and destroying the space. They’d burn the desk and most of its contents, smashed several magical artefacts, and otherwise torn the room to pieces.

Despite knowing better, Soren let his hand feel across the wall of the office and finally spin a few tangled threads of spiritual energy into the stones. A safe space about an arm’s length deep and a foot high opened up: a fine, gold-guilt bottle of Antivan brandy was sitting next to a Formari lock-box, which Soren took and would have one of the Tranquil back in Amaranthine open for him. He took the bundle of letters and gently leafed through the names, tossing them back inside when he saw his own writing addressed to Irving on the envelopes.

Nathaniel’s hand immediately went after the stack.

“Leave those,” he scolded, and Nathaniel froze, still holding them, and met his gaze for several long seconds before putting them back. Soren’s mistake was that he turned away first, because he _absolutely heard_ the sound of paper rustling as Mahanon came alone and stuffed the letters into the satchel at his own waist instead.

“Drinking is also what the inn is for,” Nathaniel announced as he took the bottle of brandy and placed himself oh-so-casually between Soren and Mahanon as they left the office.

The library was in shambles and even Morrigan admitted that they did not have the time to search through the stacks and piles and torn up shreds of centuries worth of academic magical study. Still, in the library was where they lingered the longest, and Mahanon either tried to make up for his theft of the letters or to dig himself in deeper by asking after the routines and set-up of apprentice lessons.

“The basic education took place in groups, or cohorts, of between three to five apprentices,” Soren was forced to explain, because Sephri’s accounts of Starkhaven did not match Kinloch Hold. “At thirteen, or fourteen for those who struggled, communal lessons were reduced to once or twice a week and the rest of our time was spent with our mentor one-to-one.”

“Your education took up a large chunk of the First Enchanter’s time?” Mahanon asked, if he so much as _breathed_ the word _‘Keeper’_ Soren was going to hit the older man with his shield.

“Irving assigned tasks, I fulfilled them, and he evaluated me based on what I did. I was encouraged not to fail him.” Sometimes Soren had been observed unbeknownst by other mages working on Irving’s orders. As he’d grown older and more competent, Soren had been the one making the observations. Irving’s favourite game had been to set up a trial whereby something of value had to be safeguarded from someone who was tasked with fetching it. Subtlety, as always, had been the primary focus of the anxiety-inducing dance, but that hadn’t made failure any more acceptable for either party. The Landsmeet had been a bit of a joke in comparison, but that had been Irving’s entire purpose in training them that way.

“I imagine there were certain perks and benefits to being his apprentice?” Mahanon asked.

“I became a Grey Warden and then an Arl a year later; my successor died in the Harrowing chamber.” He explained in a short, explicit manner. “You can imagine what you like.” No more questions followed _that_.

Sephri found the staff of a senior enchanter in one of the shambled offices on the upper levels. It was a beautifully worked piece of paragon’s lustre and fine nevarite braided into a starbust head. The Templars had not missed it necessarily as they had not been able to reach it: the enchanter had died in a demon’s clutches, and it was only after slaying the mangled, terrorizing body of the former mage that the staff revealed itself amidst the ashes. Sephri claimed it, and Soren did not tell her or Velanna how annoyed Senior Enchanter Fisher would have been to have all six of them traipse through his office like this just to kill his demon and take his staff. His quill was still resting just-so atop the dusty bottle of ink on the old elf’s corner desk when they left.

Two books of magic, two books of names, a child’s diary, a stack of useless letters, a paragon-lustre staff, a bottle of brandy, a Formari lock-box, a chest of lyrium, and too many bad memories led them up to…

“I bid you exercise great caution,” Greagoir’s voice called out from Duty’s mouth, the spirit-turned old Templar slowing down with his burning sword and great shield in hand still. They were at the very top of the tower now, with only one flight of stairs, a landing, and then the way to the Harrowing Chamber left to carry them further. “Although as was stated at the outside, there is no supreme demon controlling this part of the tower, that does not mean there is not the presence of several with great influence. We approach now a place with no redeeming nature, the abode of consuming regret and despair.”

“The Harrowing Chamber,” Soren echoed, and looked back at his party. “The most we _may_ find up there is more lyrium, but I wouldn’t bank on it.”

“Uh,” Nathaniel made a noise but it wasn’t very convincing. “Commander… with all due-”

“Spit it out, Nate.”

“Are you about to tell us to turn around?”

“I was considering it, there’s nothing for us here.” He was _tired_. The weight of this place went through cycles: it would be too much, and then it would be nothing, and then, like now, it would be too much all over again. They were done here.

“Hah!” Morrigan laughed, “ _This_ from the Grey Warden who picked a fight with the dragon of Haven?” He scowled at her.

“I was young and stupid, and that was _practice_ for the Archdemon.”

“It was a chance to show off,” she countered, “As is this: you have two Grey Wardens with whom you have limited experience fighting beside in battle, myself, the hound, your trusted Captain, and your spiritual companion rendered whole for this excursion. What demon should overpower you now?”

“ _None_ ,” he bit back at her. “But all we will find is injury and an empty room when the battle’s won.”

“It… _was_ a Circle.” Sephri spoke up and Soren did not know _why_ because her hatred for the Circles should have had her wanting to leave as soon as possible, meaning now. “To have demons making their home in it, in the Harrowing Chamber of all places… it’s offensive to why we were even penned up in these towers to begin with.”

“It won’t mend the veil, but it will put off stronger demons lurking for a way into our world,” Mahanon agreed in his own mellow way.

Nathaniel and Velanna said nothing, but it was Nate’s interruption that had set all of this off in the first place.

“Your companions are in agreement,” Morrigan stated, tapping the end of her staff on the broken floor. This was _so stupid_ , someone was going to get hurt.

“Fine,” he told them. “Leave the lyrium and the extra weight out here, we’ll pick it up on the way back down.”

He turned away from the quiet approval from his companions, sheathing his sword and replacing his shield across his back. Yes, their party was thin for front-line fighters, but a demon would require instinct and power to overcome, things he didn’t have with the sword and shield but could count on with his staff as the dawnstone head hummed with a charged glow. He swung it down and over his arms in a loop, rolling it over his wrist to limber up. His body was still rigid with fortifying power but it would be a very bad idea for him to release the spell before going into a fight they knew was right in front of them.

They mounted the steps, the next landing, the final staircase and through the stone doors into…

“Ah, fancy meeting you here.” The Harrowing Chamber, with a lone mage in apprentice blue robes with their fake golden hems and plain wool panels. His messy black hair and unshaved face were youthful and made him appear docile. He was nothing but a mirror of old memories, a reflection of regret that Soren hadn’t felt the demon sample from his mind, but it didn’t matter. “And Maker’s Blessings upon your friends, who followed you all this way, didn’t they? You always were so good at making people think you cared about them.”

Soren raised his staff, magic rising to his throat before swirling down and rising like a jet inside his shoulder, through the knot of his elbow, and cold water became searing flame that ignited his staff head.

Sephri dashed out to his right to flank in a wide open stone chamber that had no cover, Mahanon matching her movements to the left to avoid clustering them all together. Duty charged, shield up, with Dinah’s snapping jaws clamoring for a taste of demon flesh. Nathaniel’s arrow passed cleanly through Jowan’s shoulder, causing no reaction in the demon as its calm, illusioned face pulled magic from the Fade into a web of frigid power meant to counter Soren’s flames.

Velanna’s barrier swept up and bloomed over Soren’s head before flame launched off his staff with enough heat and force to make the air pop. He could _feel_ Morrigan working but couldn’t name the spell, side-stepping out of her way with his staff spinning before he pulled a sharp turn and swung the weapon with both hands like a great sword: he launched a second blast of crimson fire, feet moving to keep from presenting himself as a target, and-

-he was clubbed so hard across the back of his head that the front of his face-guard cut into his robes, a ribbon of hurt tying around his throat where the collar of his gorget refused to budge. He stumbled, turned, and came down with a chopping motion with his staff only to catch on the braided red steel of Wynne’s enchanter’s staff.

The weapons locked and Wynne’s pale old face was twisted with mad fury, wisps of white hair fallen free from their tight braid as she showed her teeth over the ruby red of her robes.

“I _trusted you,_ boy, and you did _nothing_ when the Circles-”

He pulled the head back, swung the butt-end up to whack her staff away, following through immediately with his right arm to hammer his staff head back around into her gut. Her soft robes did nothing to protect her body from the blow as she fell in a heap, magic screaming from her hands.

His breastplate and gorget both flexed when a body of stone and force magic slammed into his torso, winding him and kicking his feet off the floor. He landed hard on his side and heard as much as felt his pauldron’s raised wing scrape the tiles and lose a few griffon feathers. He still had his staff and found his breath before his feet, making that his first mistake.

Something grabbed his helmet and the metal went _hot_.

He felt skin sizzle, smelled his hair burning, cast his arm and staff in a circle over his head to clobber away what was holding him. Soren rose up right into the beating blows of a staff slamming his chest and then banging the shield on his back like a bell.

Pain was not the issue, loss of focus was, and the disguised demon had more time to ready and slam the head of a bloodstone staff into his shoulder with another ripping blast of force that threw him _again_. He felt the muscle tear and the joint rattle in its socket. He hit the floor hard but came up out of the skid on one knee, his wounded arm resting its hand on the floor, his right arm and pauldron cast in front of him to shield what the helmet didn’t cover of his face.

The air was cold and filled with flakes of snow, Jowan’s laughter calling the Wardens to attack him as ice gathered up Sephri’s legs and broke her focus as she aimed staff-blows at her feet trying to free herself, Duty’s shield remaining strong but focused on ensuring Dinah didn’t succumb to the howling storm.

 Mahanon’s green aura was flagging violently as his will twisted and locked against Wynne’s pulverising demand that he submit, her staff’s howling fury turning Nathaniel’s arrows to ash before he gave up and charged her with two lethal daggers drawn and ready.

Irving plucked Morrigan’s spells apart like broken threads in a tapestry and Soren heard her swears and screams of outrage at the demon’s _gall_. Velanna’s hands were burning bright and blue just trying to keep a part of her mind ready and aware of each person around her so they did not fall, healing threads weaving fast and sure as she spun magic through the thin air.

“You warned them, yes.” That left Soren alone with _this one_. “But you didn’t protect them. You _knew_ what was waiting up here, but you didn’t keep them from it. Pride said this would be so much harder, it laughed and said _‘A thousand nights and a thousand nightmares, why would my mage fall to **you**?’_ , but here you are, on your knees, because _you won’t face me_.”

He breathed deeply of the cold air, the tower weighing on him, the blue and moonlit stone of the Harrowing Chamber creating an echo of every scrape, slash, and scream in the fight. His breaths went misty white when they came out. Magic spun through his chest, constant as the tide.

“You _loved me_ , and what good did it do? You still let him come for me whenever he wanted, still let him take me away and bring me back shaking, with bruises and silence in my mouth. You turned around and left me, didn’t even say good bye to me, just left me here alone with _him._ ”

Inhale.

Pain began to scratch and bite at his ribs, started to needle through his blood and inflame the skin, rip through muscle and feed off pain.

Exhale.

“You let me _die…_ ” It was the demon’s own fault for choosing a face so long from his sights he didn’t even know if the voice was really his or not. “You told yourself such _lies_ that I would join you but when I needed you most you loved me but still _let me d-”_

Up. One motion, one leg pulling all his weight from the floor up into a lunge with one hand, the taint giving his grasp the reach and strength to gouge his gauntlet’s sharp tips into soft skin before grabbing the collar of gold-gilded yellow robes and yank down to his level. No tender muscle was going to stop his left hand from grabbing the gold dagger from behind his back and hammering the wide blade straight down through that neck, to the hilt, and drag the demon’s masked face down with a swift kick behind its legs to knock it into his arms.

“ _Shut. Up._ ” Soren hissed, the taint roaring like a beast in his blood and causing pure rage to surge through his livid body. “And _get_ _out_ of _my tower_ …”

Shocked eyes- green? Blue? Grey? The demon didn’t know. Golden hair slicked with blood, long ears that burst with the trauma enacted on them. Soren twisted the knife and ripped it down toward the creature’s chest, spilling more red blood than the creature knew what to do with, _his_ overpowering will ignoring bone and structure to gouge right into the heart and lung of the illusion.

Hateful fire followed the hand he slammed down into the carnage and the demon erupted with bone-splitting force, meat and blood scattering over the floor and washing up over his armour. Regret was _dead_.

“Focus your _strength!_ ” He shouted, standing, stepping over the faded memory, and throwing a web of twisted white hate through the air that snapped Wynne’s spectre up like a young fawn in a snare. She kicked and screamed and began to _burn_ , the cage of energy closing its jaws and letting Mahanon’s gaseous green poison invade the demon’s body and melt bone and silk and ire into a feeble skeleton of Shame.

“Rally! One at a damn time and _end them!_ ” Freed from Wynne’s cursework Nathaniel put a barbed arrow through Irving’s neck, Mahanon throwing magic to Sephri and breaking her from her cold trap. The bladed end of Morrigan’s staff stabbed through Irving’s chest, pulled back, stabbed again, and Velanna’s stones broke his legs before Soren engulfed Fear in spitting black flames until it crumbled to white ash.

Despair laughed and then cried, weeping through a snowstorm that fell back like trees from the wind when Soren blasted fire after its boney feet. Jowan’s face slipped, and melted, and pooled on the floor where it froze again. Sephri’s lightning shattered cold walls and Dinah bit hard through wisp and ire to find bones she could crunch, and drag, and tear from the body. Duty ran the memory of the blood mage through the gut, and Despair died making pathetic little sobbing noises that Soren crushed under his own boot.

The battle was won. The tower was cleared. There was _nothing_ for them to claim as a prize or trophy in this damned chamber, just like Soren had told them.

“You are injured,” Morrigan told him, and Soren nearly spat at her.

“Then I should have been paying better attention, shouldn’t I?”

“I am certain Velanna has the stamina to tend your face and arm before we depart.” What the hell did that matter? Inns were for healing, not decrepit towers full of dead children. “And you will need a new helmet, that one is now terribly deformed.”

“You comfort me with your words of concern, Morrigan.” He hissed back at her. “Save it for the inn, we are _leaving_.”

“There remains a demon,” Duty announced, and Soren rolled his shoulders and his eyes at the spirit.

“We’re in a _demon-infested tower,_ Duty, you said yourself there’s no supreme power to eliminate and cleanse them all with.”

“I mean that there is another demon here, in this room, that is an immediate threat and has not been vanquished.” Greagoir’s voice was firm and Duty scowled at them, his sword still burning with Soren’s magic and his shield lowered, but not put aside. “We cannot leave the tower and risk its accompaniment, and I do not believe that like myself it shall remain on the proper side of the veil once it has left the island.”

“Alright, well where is it?” Nathaniel asked.

“As I have taken the form of a Templar, I must abide by the duties of one. It is my purpose and my existence to enforce and uplift the obligations of chosen responsibilities.”

“Yes, yes, Knight Commander and villain of Thedas, we know.” Sephri’s short temper was calmed only by the fact that she was short-of-breath and kept touching a hand to her side, a sign that she was injured. “ _Where is it?_ ”

Greagoir looked at Soren, and then over his head and past him. He turned and looked toward the chamber door, the only way in or out of the room. His eyes searched the frescos, the arches, the illuminated windows that turned the daylight outside into a dim milky glow. Duty approached and Soren kept looking. He hadn’t retrieved his staff from the floor and would have to do that, sheathing the dagger of his command behind himself at his belt.

“It cannot be permitted to leave,” Duty repeated. Yes, they knew-

“ _Soren!_ ”

His body lurched, all of it. It shouldn’t have been that easy: he was wearing armour, a gorget of folded scales down his front and back, over his robes, under a chainmail shirt, and a warden gambeson of studded silverite. The breastplate should have at least stopped the blade from coming out the front of him, but it didn’t.

He lurched, kept his feet with a soft scuffle. Then hit his knees. The sword withdrew and there was screaming, an eruption of magic. His weight found his hands, maybe, and then his face was touching the cold, dusty floor.

Duty’s sword ripped the weight of the broken Circle off his back, but left a hole through which both blood and magic began to siphon and run off.

He felt calm.


	33. Sister Saya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS is the chapter that made all my updates slow WAY THE HECK DOWN, because I kept changing the order of stuff.
> 
> Updates should be steady from here to Chapter 38, which is when Soren lags ridiculously behind Jylan’s plotline and I need very badly to actually write his stuff out. Stupid Warden.

Saya’s place of employment and lodging was, not surprisingly, a brothel.

Samar’s emotional reaction to this information bordered very closely on the socially excessive, and Rian’s outright humiliation interfered with his ability to so much as state the name of the bawdy house without either profuse blushing or the appearance of stress-induced tears. Jylan’s brothers were ashamed of their sister’s profession: this point was made, repeated, displayed, elaborated, and expunged upon at considerable length.

As Jylan had not yet completed his letter for Midwife Valora; met with the Hahren to discuss the wrongful seizure of his sister’s dowry money; clearly communicated the forbidden prospect of Eli Masao’s return to their family home; overseen the completion of the fireplace and water pump; or moved his nieces and nephews out of the inn and back into their home, it became necessary to motivate his brothers to action rather than wallowing self-pity.

“You are ashamed, I am not, therefore-”

“She’s your _baby sister!_ ” Rian shrieked at him on the snowy street not far from the establishment. “How can you _not_ be- be _disgusted_ by-?” Jylan paid back Rian’s interruption with one of his own, as he had learned that this was not a punishable or offensive act between family members.

“I am Tranquil and not unfamiliar with matter at hand.” His statement alarmed Samar.

“Jeevan, don’t-”

“Maker’s Breath-” Rian moaned over him, hands in his brown hair. “They actually had whores in the Circle, didn’t they? You’re telling me you’ve actually _paid-”_

“Yes, there were whores in the Circle,” Jylan interrupted again. “No, I did not pay for one as the whores were not compensated for their use. They were also not referred to as whores.”

“Jeevan,” Rian huffed at him, both of them ignoring Samar’s protests of _‘Please don’t bring this up now’_. “If it walks like a nug and it squeaks like a nug then it’s a fucking-”

“-Tranquil.” Jylan turned and walked away down the street. Rian’s shouting was gathering far too much attention for them.

Master Arainai fell in step with him with a quiet and tightly curled smile. Rian and Samar were too busy yelling at each other to follow.

“Getting a bit testy, are we?” Jylan was not testy, he did not have a temperament: he was tranquil. However, he did have an answer:

“If I must engage in discussions of subjective morality then I would have it be on the immediate matter of my nephew’s flagging health and risk of expiration as we progress through the winter months, not his mother’s method of employ.”

“What is your plan, going in there?” Arainai was grinning openly now.

“I do not believe you will approve of it, but I have no intention of offending the establishment or my sister.”

“Does this plan involve you standing in the midst of the house shouting for your sister to come meet with you, and you proceed to hoist her over your shoulder and walk out?”

Jylan stopped walking so he could regard Master Arainai directly without risking his health or clothing with a sudden tumble into the cold street.

“No.” Arainai laughed and swept a flourishing bow to him.

“Then I shall have your back, whatever you decide.”

Dirthamen had thrown a fit at being left behind in the Alienage, but Jylan did not consider the mabari’s presence necessary when Master Arainai was at hand, and additionally the unwashed hound’s presence in the brothel would not have been looked upon kindly. He had not brought his befouled cloak, but the black robe of thick, good wool from Amaranthine. It was not as tightly bound or secure as his formari robes had been but it was familiar and warm.

The house was part of the merchant quarter of Gwaren. Despite being a Teyrnir, unlike Highever which had maintained its status through political maneuvers, Gwaren was too remote to have been of excessive consequence during the consolidation of the nation. There was no noble quarter, only the merchants and associated businesses which sought distance from the briny smell of the docks. It was a place where the city guards patrolled regularly, and the street despite its puddles was in better repair than anything near the alienage. In this part of the city, both Samar and Master Arainai had been careful to hide their blades from plain sight.

The two of them entered the establishment and were greeted with warmth and an abundance of red silk and muslin curtains. The building smelled strongly of cinnamon and cloves, with many burning fires and braziers providing both light and respite from the wet cold of the street. They were stopped at once by a tall human man with a short-sword at his belt and arms roped in heavy muscle. He crossed his arms and scowled at them, clearly intending to bar their entry.

“Shall I?” Master Arainai asked him, a friendly smile and casual flick of his wrist indicating the bodyguard in front of them. In a true test of mettle, the Hero of Ferelden’s personal retainer would doubtless come out on top against a man hired to protect prostitutes.

“No.”

“Move along, elves,” the human grumbled at them, nodding to the door behind them.

Jylan showed a gold coin in his palm. The human’s eyes went wide.

“Ah,” Master Arainai said, disapproval surfacing. “Could you not have brought silver instead?”

“I did,” He answered, and then spoke to the bouncer while Master Arainai grumbled softly at this information. “I have come to purchase an hour of time and will be of no trouble.”

The human said nothing, but looked at Master Arainai with less certainty than before. The older man folded his arms and nodded to Jylan.

“I go where he goes, and I do as he says.”

The human got out of their way and they entered the establishment properly. Couches in various states of plushness and repair, streams of velvet and lace and the now overpowering smell of cloves. Ladies with wine and low necklines, skirts ridden up to their thighs, khol-darkened eyes and rouged lips and cheeks, elven and human and mingling together or fawning over a few pleased looking male customers. There were card and dice tables, as well as shelves of books of undetermined titles. The smell of rich tea and hot wine circulated under the spices.

They were stopped again, this time by an older woman with a painted face and a wide feather fan, her skirts not as high and neckline not as low, who asked them in a smooth but direct way what they wanted.

“I am here to purchase an hour of time with one of the women working here. I do not know her rate and I do not know if she uses a different name from the one I know. Her given name is Saya.”

“You from the Alienage?” The woman asked him.

“Yes.”

“Tough for you then, she doesn’t service Gwaren elves.”

“I have no intention of being serviced by her, but to speak with her in private. However, I understand that this is a business and that she must be compensated for her time spent off the floor and away from clients.”

The fan was snapped shut and waved under his nose.

“ _Tough. Shit. For. You._ ”

“I will double her rate.” The woman recoiled with a roll of her shoulders, the plump shelf of her bosom moving with the gesture.

“You can’t afford it.”

“How much is it?”

“An hour? A silver.”

He showed two. The madam rustled herself again, but took his coins with a swipe and gave him a dirty look.

“You give my girl trouble, knife-ear, and I give you a short and sexless life, understood?”

“Yes.” He had no intention of giving trouble.

“And _you?_ ” This was for Master Arainai. He heaved a sigh and took a look around the establishment again, then looked at Jylan.

“Were you thinking of taking your conversation in a private room, or one of these dark corners here on the floor?”

“I would leave that to her discretion as well as the house’s.”

“Why do I never expect these considerate answers of yours?” Jylan did not know if he should answer that, but Arainai looked back to the madam. “If my friend is taken to a room, I will wait outside of it and you may post whomever you like to watch me as well. If they stay on the floor, then I will help myself to a serving of that lovely red I smelled on the way in and perhaps a card game or two. I do _love_ a good hand of wicked grace.”

They were led to a set of couches separated from the main area by a sheer beaded curtain. Master Arainai was presented with his wine and a deck of cards, but no betting mate as they waited.

“You…” The assassin spoke gently after sampling his wine with a delighted sigh, “Are paying a credible sum of money to a _brothel_ to speak with your own sister. Does this not strike you as odd?”

“It is not ideal, but I have not found much of the previous week that one would call satisfactory.”

“That is putting it _mildly_ ,” Arainai chuckled. “Now you’ve piqued my interest: what would you consider the ideal?”

Jylan considered this question, but was interrupted when the curtain was parted by a woman. It was fortunate that he was tranquil and that his brothers were not present.

“Your desire, Messers?” Their family was Rivaini in origin and that was reflected in the saffron yellow of the silk clinging in small sequined panels to the woman’s body. Her arms were bare but for a set of gold, or gold-painted, bangles attached to sheer saffron scarves flowing from her elbows to her shoulders and across her back. She was not wearing a dress, but a choker of gold fabric, with the aforementioned silk triangles. Her midriff was covered only by strings of wooden beads which clicked and circled her waist, her dark skin revealed in many places and thus thoroughly explaining the great warmth of the building. A single sheet of silk trailed down under her navel to her ankles, another panel down both sides of her hips, and presumably one behind her.

Her dark hair was loose and tangled in familiar curls, Rian’s colour but his texture. She entered by twirling her arm through the curtain so her body was stretched, slender and lean, and she sighed from behind a silk veil. Her green eyes were darkened with khol like the other women, yellow shards of glass or tourmaline glittering from her ears. 

“Oh,” Master Arainai was not tranquil and he was not one of Jylan’s brothers. He stared, and then placed his elbow on the little table holding his wine and rubbed his eyes with one hand. “Oh no. Shit.”

“Messers?” Saya repeated herself,

“I’m too old for this…” Arainai complained. Jylan stood, hands folded and elbows close. His hood remained up and he spoke directly.

“You do not know who I am but I have only purchased an hour of your time.” He took her attention and made her freeze up, her act no longer quite as smooth as before. He understood what startled her: “My voice and manners are strange because I am tranquil: one who exists without dreams or emotions. I will repeat that last part: I have no emotions, Saya.”

Her body language changed considerably, drawing the curtain quickly across the quiet space and then marching towards him, hissing behind her veil with her drawn-in eyebrows pulled down. The resemblance to Ariyah was strong.

“You’re from the alienage-” she accused. “So I’ll say what Mistress Minra couldn’t: _fuck off_ , I’m done with Masao’s dirty fingers getting into everything that’s none of his business.”

“I am not an agent of Hahren Masao or his nephew,” he stated. “I am a stranger to you, but I am the third of your four brothers. I was removed from the alienage as-”

She reached out and snatched back his hood. She said nothing and her angry expression did not falter at the sight of his face or his braided hair. Faced with her silence, he continued.

“I was removed from the alienage as a child after the Blight and our father’s death, and was taken to the-”

“-Fereldan Circle of Magi,” she finished. Her anger faltered briefly, but then she scowled and gave him a shove that he resisted enough to keep his feet from. “As if I should believe you. As if I’m going to stand here and have some _stranger_ lecture me about _values_ and _family honour_. Go _fuck yourself_ , ”

“I am not here to lecture you, but I do have questions.”

“Oh I’m _sure you do_ ,” she sneered back at him. “Give me one _fucking_ reason why I shouldn’t have you thrown out.”

“Is your rate one silver per hour?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“My reason is that I paid twice that much to speak with you.” She froze up with an odd stagger, staring at him. “I do not expect kindness or acceptance from you, Saya, only an hour of your time to resolve things I do not know of yourself and our family’s situation.”

“So if I call you a piece of shit for taking up my time, you’re still going to stay here?”

“Yes.”

“Well you’re a _piece of shit_ for taking up my time.”

“And the Hahren is a piece of shit for stealing your dowry money.”

Master Arainai choked on his wine, wrist to his nose to stifle a laugh.

“How am I _never_ ready to hear you swear?” His display and question both took Saya’s attention.

“Wait, I’m not touching _you_ because you’re supposed to be family and… creepy, but what about him?”

“I cannot interfere with your business.” Jylan stated because it was true. “But if you are asking for my opinion then I would prefer it if you did not engage in sexual acts with Master Arainai.”

“ _So would Master Arainai,_ ” The assassin wheezed, coughing again on his wine. “It is not a slight against your charm or beauty, _Bella_ , but rather that I have grown fond of your family and do not desire to have your eldest brother stick me full of knives, the younger one poison me in some horrible manner, or the middle one proceed to cry on me. I am only here to ensure no harm befell your brother.”

Saya was quiet for a few moments, counting slowly to three before looking at Jylan with renewed interest.

“You can make _poisons?_ ” She asked.

“I am trained, amongst other things, as an apothecary and chemist. However, that is a departure from my intended-”

“Alright, _fine._ ” She drew a chair from the table across from Master Arainai and sat down directly in front of Jylan, folded her arms, and swung one long leg over the other. Her outfit did not lend this act much modesty but it was simply a matter of focusing on her veiled face instead. “I’ll answer your stupid questions _if_ we leave a few minutes at the end to talk shop.”

“Very well. My first question is are you fairly compensated for your services to the brothel?” She gave him a dirty look, perhaps assuming he meant to take from her earnings. She folded her arms across the slinky texture of her outfit and shimmied a little in her chair.

“Room, board,” she numbered off, “House takes half what I earn, my food’s another quarter, I get maybe two silver a week plus _gifts_.” Two silver a week meant she earned considerably more than that for the house, but what followed was important: “I sleep on silk sheets, have all my clothes made _for me_ , skin creams and khol from places Samar’s never _dreamed_ of sailing to, little sandwiches with the crusts cut off and cinnamon sticks in my _tisane_. Oh, and I get my _bits jingled_ on the regular, if you know what I mean. So yes, _brother_ , I am compensated.”

“Are you provided with sufficient protection against rowdy or abusive patrons?”

“Bit of something in their wine,” She said, bouncing one sandaled foot and twirling a length of twisted brown hair around her ringed finger. “Or rubbed into their man-bits, _or_ their lady-bits, whatever the flavour of the night is. Bruiser at the front door does most of the heavy lifting, but the rest is why _you and I_ are going to discuss-”

“At the end of the hour. First, are all of your encounters consensual?”

“Awfully thorough for my _brother,_ aren’t you?”

“I am tranquil and immune to the effects of both embarrassing questions and mandated physical use. The same cannot be said for you or the rest of our family.”

“What?” She asked, her finger stopping in her hair. “Go back, what did you mean by _mandated-_ ”

“Are all of your transactions consensual, Saya?”

“ _Yes?”_ She tilted her head with the answer. “I get _paid_ to have whoever walks in call me beautiful and stroke my _hair_ and _take off all my-_ ”

“Mistress he is _tranquil_ ,” Master Arainai interrupted from his seat just outside their discussion, arms folded. “You are not going to get a rise out of him or scare him off. For Andraste’s Blessed Heart, _cut it out_.” Jylan was not entirely certain what he meant.

“Cut out her heart? Sounds messy, Messer.” Master Arainai frowned at her, then shrugged with a thoughtful review of her pun and went back to his wine. “Next question.”

“For the sake of infallible clarity:” Jylan prefaced. “Did you adopt this profession because it was outwardly appealing to you, or because it pays a significant sum which may aid our family in recouping the loss of your dowry?”

She took a soft breath, held it, and then reached up and tugged the saffron veil down from her face. She had Samar’s pointed chin and Rian’s narrow nose. She was very beautiful, and when she shrugged her narrow shoulders her beads clicked.

“Does it have to be just one or the other?” She asked. “I’m not sending a bit’s worth of nothing back so long as that _etunashol_ is sitting in Mamae’s house, but I get what I want and more from the house. I like it here: no Ariyah telling me what to do, no Rian losing his shit over every little thing I _don’t_ do. The girls treat me nice, Minra likes me just fine. No husband, no _Hahren_ , no eight squalling brats pushed out for no one’s benefit.” Jylan nodded at this breakdown of her arrangement.

“Then I will offer no criticism of your choice to remain here,” he stated. “So that you are aware, the _etunashol_ has been run out of the house again, and I have moved in. Rian has also returned to the house, and I will dissuade him from antagonizing you further provided that your arrangement with the house remains both consensual and to your liking. Should that change, I will offer what assistance I am able to help you manage your situation to your liking.”

She sat there for several seconds looking at him, watching closely and taking very slow, measured breaths. That she did not trust him was clear even to his tranquil self.

“That’s an awful lot of good news but I haven’t heard a catch yet.”

“You suggest an ulterior motive behind my presence? I would prefer the word secondary.”

“You can call it missionary for all the difference being fucked over makes. What do you _want_?”

He refrained from informing her that he was tranquil and therefore, by his very nature, incapable of wants, desires, or expressions of outright motivation. He moved directly to the answer to her incorrectly worded question:

“To know what your intentions are for the child.”

Saya’s face twisted, as if she had tasted something bitter. She looked away and rolled her shoulders, sighing hard.

“Ariyah looks after him well enough, don’t she?”

“Ariyah is not capable of nursing, and the other alienage families have proven unwilling to provide such a service. He has been provided with goat’s milk but that may not guarantee-”

“Then give him to the chantry.” She interrupted him directly, not angrily but with force. “That’s what I told her to do in the first place, what I told _everyone_. I didn’t want it; I don’t want it; it doesn’t want _me_ , and as soon as it came out with those round little ears it should have been dropped on the chantry steps. I fed it a month like I knew I had to and that was it: if it’s still in the house then it’s Ariyah’s own doing and _she’s_ who you should talk to.”

“You had not intention of bonding with it?”

“ _None._ ” But she was upset with this topic, it was distressing and if he intended to remain for the full length of purchased time then he would need to proceed quickly so as not to upset her to the point where they forced them to depart earlier. “I don’t want any of it: the fireside, the ten children, none of it. You say you’re Jeevan, the brother I barely knew? Well I remember what it did to Mamae when they took you away and we never found Babae in the rubble. I remember what it did to her when Damen’s ship went down, what it did to _all of us_ , and I’m not going through it again. I want to be _here_ , and I can’t do that with a brat on my hip. He’s shem-looking, let the shems have him. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

“That is ultimately what you want?” He clarified. Saya kept her arms folded, lacquered nails biting into her forearms.

“Yes.” She was hurting but firm. “If he grows up in the alienage he’ll be hated and teased and beaten up by all the other brats, it’s what the alienage _does_. If he goes to the Chantry then either he won’t know or he _will know_ but there will be other elf-blooded brats like him there. I’ve nothing to give him that wouldn’t mark him an elf anyways, so just let it be done. It’s better than waiting for the _etunashol_ to come back and make another riot about him…”

“Rian suggested that Ariyah’s husband tried to harm the infant.” She tucked her chin, neck rigid, eyes still open but she was forcing herself to keep her eyes open where they’d fallen to his chest.

“That’s how I know I can’t take the brat back.” Her voice became hushed, but did not waver. “I was relieved when Eli grabbed him from me. Mamae would have been beside herself if it was one of us; Ariyah goes to her knees, hands up whenever one of hers is in trouble, but me?” She took a breath, licked one of her rouged lips, and then rolled her shoulders back before looking at his eyes again. “I was _relieved_. Andraste’ll love him more than I do. If Ariyah needs me to show up and personally pick him up for the sisters then fine, I’ll do it, but otherwise… Just get rid of him.”

He considered her argument at length, aware that he was taking up more time than was typically allotted for self-reflection. Her insistence that the infant would be better off in the chantry had merit: if he survived he stood a chance of adoption or indoctrination into the Chantry as a Lay Brother, Chantry Journeyman, Templar, or Seeker in the Divine’s army. Any of these would require that he received a modest education: letters, numbers, and grammar. He would be fed.

If he became a mage, however, his life would take a very different and detrimental turn. Only one of his cousins had reached the age and displayed the talent so far, but there was no reason to rule out the possibility that the infant would do the same in ten years’ time.

If he remained with the family his chances of education were significantly less without sponsorship from one of his uncles: Rian or Jylan specifically. He would be labelled elf-blooded outright and would suffer certain social penalties, but depending on his socialization within an already ostracized family unit, it might be manageable depending on his temperament. Regardless, he would be the target of attacks based on both his mixed heritage as well as his community ties.

However, within the chantry he would have no family unit whatsoever, no understanding of his heritage, as well as a heavily contextualized setting of supplication to the Maker to give thanks for his every breath and beating heart.

It was possible that Jylan’s perceptions of chantry care were biased given his the excessively strict and taxing experience of living in the Circle of Magi. Context was important: Jylan had been a mage, not a lay orphan. He had been an elf, not elf-blooded, a secret which could be kept if managed properly at the moment of his arrival on the doorstep of the chantry hall. Mages were reviled and required quarantine from society. Orphans were burdensome, but ultimately of value.

“It will be as you have requested,” He told his sister, relieving some of her anxiety where she had moved to lean forward in her chair, watching him with her hands worrying the rings around her fingers.

“That… that’s it?”

“You are the infant’s mother. I assume that you have not maintained any connection with his father and doubt that you know his identity?”

“I make a _lot_ of money,” she answered him defensively, but he had not meant to offend her.

“Then he is of no consequence and has no input of value. If you say the child must be left with the chantry, then it will be so. Ariyah cannot care for him on her own, and as a Tranquil I am similarly incapable of providing emotional or social support for a small child: my presence is already distressing enough to the children presently within the home.”

“You are a little… odd, I grant you.”

“My behaviour is an effect of the Rite which resolved me of all magical ability. It is not ideal, but it is my reality.”

“So, you’re _not_ a mage anymore?”

“No. I am cut off from a realm known as the Fade which is where the minds of all other living beings but Dwarves go when they sleep. Without the Fade, I have no magic; without dreams, I have no desires or emotions.”

His sister smiled at him with her green eyes hooded briefly by her long lashes.

“No desires _at all?_ ”

“None that can be satisfied by my younger sister whilst sitting with her in a brothel.” Why she sought to engage him in a flirtatious manner did not reveal itself to him. He was tranquil, but most importantly: her brother.

Saya and Master Arainai both laughed briefly at his comment.

“You know,” Arainai mentioned quietly where he was reclined in his seat with one leg hooked over his knee, fine clothes and fine hilts showing in the warm light. “I posed a question to your brother before we arrived here today. Your family has been under great stress these last few months, my dear, and your brother has provided some relief to it, but I asked him: what would his ideal homecoming have been like?”

Jylan remembered and reconsidered this question, although not to the same great length as before. Saya was looking at him curiously.

“We still need to talk of messy things,” she said, threading her fingers through the beaded strands hanging from her clothes. “But I’ll bite: what’s a man without wants want for his so-called family?”

“If it is a matter of want and desire, then there is no answer at all,” Jylan answered in a clinical manner, but he understood that what they meant was not the same as what they had said. “If it is a matter of what is considered ideal, what is most agreeable to all parties, then the answer is thorough but simple. Ideally, Samar would have returned to a family engaged in social harmony, with a safe, secure home warmly lit and furnished for its occupants needs. His siblings and nieces and nephews would have been prepared to greet him, and there would have been hot, good food for them all to eat. My homecoming would not have been overly remarkable as it would impact very little: there would have been assistance in locating a room for me to board, or a space of little consequence vacated for me within the house, then I would have promptly acquired employment, stablished a new wage, and gone about my business without interference in our family’s affairs. That would have been the ideal.”

Saya was listening to him, but frowning gently.

“You had me until the part about us stuffing you in a closet. Even for us, sounds odd.” He provided clarification.

“Tranquil are considered unsettling and socially incompetent, while simultaneously requiring no social contact to maintain our levels of productivity. Permitting me to board with the family while working to support them without causing emotional stress for its members would have been ideal.”

“Still creepy,” She told him with a huff, “but aside from that: that’s it? Just, all of us at a full table with a fire going and some silvers for a rainy day?”

“The request was for the ideal, not the realistic or the extravagant.”

“You are one _strange_ knife-ear, I give you that,” she remarked, rolling the words around in her mouth and leaning back in her chair, bouncing her foot again as she looked around the small space for a moment. “Fine, so where does this leave us? Can we talk about what _I_ want to talk about now?”

“Yes.”

She did not know of herbs or chemistry, only the items she used or had seen other women in the house use. A cream which did not seem familiar to him, a draught he remembered from Midwife Valora’s requisitions, a serum for chafes and aches, a balm for other irritations. He had access to none of the reagents to make such substances, and furthermore no viable workspace in which to unpack his tools and begin work.

Saya said this would be taken care of, if he was able to be discreet and work quietly.

Discretion had been named as one of his features by Seneschal Garevel in his letter of recommendation. Jylan could have questioned the validity of this attribute, but did not: he highlighted it.

A second hour was spent in a private room, not with Saya, but with Madame Minra of the Twisted Tail while Master Arainai patiently waited outside the door, with Bruiser the doorman watching him in turn. Deathroot, Rashvine, Deep Mushroom powder, blood lotus concentrate, embrium petals, windowmaker roots, vandal aria thorns. These were some of the components discussed between them.

A contract was discussed, drafted, but not yet signed. She did not require his letters of recommendation and her stipulations were clear: he would be paid based on output, with materials supplied by the Madame to ensure their quality from her personal sources. He would work as many days a week as was necessary to fulfill requisitions. If he poisoned any of her girls he would be beaten, presumably to death, and thrown into the street.

The workspace provided was not sufficient, merely a table in the back with access to the brothel’s kitchen fire and water source: he would be required to share the space and defer to the cooks and scullery maids. The mornings would be the quietest time for him to work.

His earnings would not fill the gap left by his loss of employment at Vigil’s Keep, but it was a start.

Under a dim evening sky Jylan and Master Arainai finally left the brothel, and found Samar and Rian had not waited for them after being denied entry on their own. They did not return directly to the alienage.

“Is there a reason we are here?” Master Arainai asked as they wandered the merchant quarter for longer than was pleasant in the cold. “I ate a bit at the whorehouse, but I have not seen you eat today, my friend.”

“My hunger is not overbearing.”

“But that does not mean you are not hungry.”

The Dwarven Merchant’s Guild was one of the most expansive and far-flung establishments in Thedas. Their architecture was very distinct and stood out even in the stone heart of Gwaren. Jylan and Master Arainai were admitted without question or odd looks, and were seen to at once when he made his request.

“You’re out of your sodding mind, elf.” He showed the guildsman the brand on his forehead, leaning into the torchlight when requested. “Oh. Nevermind then, fine. It’s the lyrium that’ll run you the most anyways.”

“My patron already possesses a sufficient quantity of lyrium.”

“Surfacers are mad, the lot of you.”

“What are you buying?” Master Arainai inquired again when the dwarf left them to find the requested items. “Like your former guild nothing in this hall is for cheap.”

“No, but it is of value.”

Master Arainai waited in wondering silence as the dwarf brought back three options: a finely gilded set of tools in an engraved case, fitted with gold handles and magnificent dragonebone edges, ten sovereigns. A journeyman’s toolkit of fifteen pieces, made of good nevarite and marble handles, two sovereigns. A salvaged kit, presumably from the Deep Roads, of seven pieces with chipped and worn down carved handles and blunted but strong dwarven steel edges. Fifty silver.

Jylan bartered the journeyman’s kit down to a sovereign and fifty, then took the salvaged set for thirty silver. These were not smiths’ tools or carpenters’ tools or a jewlers’ or leatherworkers’ or weaver’s or alchemists’. These were Formari tongs and grips and pliers, their special gauges and syringes and mask and gloves. Jylan was not a Formari, but he possessed just enough knowledge and just enough lyrium for his intended project to pan out. The extravagance of the purchase was not lost on him, but even in their eroded quality these tools would last for many years now that they were in his care.

Master Arainai understood better and offered no judgement as a sovereign was broken and the silver paid. The assassin followed him from the guild and back to the alienage in mystified silence, and let himself into the cold dark house where Ariyah was waiting with Dirthamen Midwife Surana, who had brought bread and onion soup for his sister and Jylan himself to eat. He was very fatigued, but so was the hound…?

“He spent all day playing with Sanjay and the others,” Ariyah reported proudly from the table where two candles were burning down. “They ran each other ragged.” His sister was wrapped up in blankets and shawls, her hands busy sewing and her table covered in clippings, the infant swaddled and bound to her chest with a scarf. She was healthier, and in better spirits as Dirthamen nosed excessively at Jylan before returning to his sister and settling his head in her lap: presumably how he had spent most of the evening.

“Rian was in a mood when he and Samar came back and took the children to the inn,” Ariyah told him, ushering him from her seat to sit down at the table next to Midwife Surana, who was reserved and said little. “I don’t think they liked being left out in the cold by you. Did you meet her?”

“Yes. It was a thorough discussion and I now better understand her position. She was pleased that your husband has been removed from the house and considers me very strange.”

“Sadly true,” Ariyah allowed, placing a hand to the sleeping child at her breast. “And her baby?”

“May I defer the subject until I have rested?”

“He is tired because he is _hungry_ ,” Arainai scolded him and set both hands down hard and unexpected on Jylan’s shoulders. “Whatever he ate before he left is all he has had all day. Please, feed the poor man.” Ariyah clicked her tongue sharply at him in a familiar manner, and with a hand she instructed Neria to serve him, which was unnecessary, but his sister silenced him strictly. The soup was over-salted, but hot.

The midwife hugged his sister before leaving for the night now that he had returned to stay with her. Master Arainai was not introduced to her, and it was only after her immediate departure that Jylan realized the assassin may have been interested in her family history, though Jylan himself did not know it.

The workmen had departed with the chimney nearly complete, and the pipe in the kitchen had been replaced but not yet sealed. The house was very cold but there was charcoal a plenty in the bedroom upstairs: Midwife Surana had helped Ariyah move the mattress and bedding from Rian’s room to the floor of the bedroom for Jylan to sleep on versus the cold floor.

“You should not exert yourself,” he cautioned her, mouth stinging from wasted salt.

“By helped me I mean she did the lifting and I told her where to put it. The children tried to help as well.”

Jylan had not known there was fish in the soup until one of the thin bones became caught in his throat and he coughed several times to remove it. He finished his meal with more caution, and was very fatigued. He explained to his sister that in the morning he would be returning to the brothel because he had acquired a small contract to supply the house with basic apothecary needs. She disapproved, but not as surely as he knew Samar and Rian would in the morning.

“What’s in that box you’re carrying?” She asked him a distraction.

“Important tools I was unable to acquire or maintain possession of in Amaranthine.” His Formari tools had been on loan from the Guild, and returned when he had finished using them. His sister frowned gently and leaned over the table, reaching for his hand which she stroked gently in the candlelight.

“You’re freezing cold and falling asleep in your chair, Jeevan,” She said softly, and then lifted herself up. Jylan stood and aided her, pain crossing her face before she breathed through it and straightened her back. He assisted her up the stairs and consented to take the sleeping infant from her so she could prepare herself for bed. It did not wake up in his arms.

She returned, climbed into bed and took the child. He removed his boots and the black robe with its wet hem, brushed out his hair and washed his face with a bit of water.

He was warm and he was fed, if not a very good meal. Dirthamen cozied up to him immediately to make up for time otherwise lost throughout the day.

Like his nephew, Jylan slept.

* * *

Morrigan had been accused many times, by many different people, of not loving her Warden.

She had been cautioned nearly as many times that, by virtue of his nature, her Warden did not love her either.

They did not care for one another properly; didn’t fall to miserable pieces when apart, or rush breathless to one another’s arms when reunited. He did not hold her hand whilst walking about and she did not lay her head on his shoulder when they rested. They traded no pet-names, wrote no poetry, did not trade kisses or tender looks in the sight of others. They were openly severe with one another when cross or displeased, and _that_ , common sense reasoned, indicated more of their private feelings than their indifferent public faces would ever show.

Impossible, then, that they should love each other.

It did not help matters that love was a terrible liability to carry about in one’s heart. It opened doors and offered pleasures which outweighed the risks, yes, but did not eliminate them. The risks love posed did not vanish like the loneliness it so handily cast aside, and the weaknesses it hollowed out were not eased like the cold nights spent in trusting company. Love was weakness because it meant fortifying yourself based on the strength of someone else, of building up together more than the individual alone could accomplish.

And it was worth it, she realized, even at the precise instant when a blood-riveted sword spiked out through the front of Soren’s armour and he made only the softest noise of protest.

Duty’s sword went through her love’s shield, through his armour, through his body, and it did not come out until Soren dropped to his knees and then to the floor. Morrigan was already screaming.

“ _NO!! NO- no-! **No!**_ ”

Love blinded her to the true task before them: the traitorous spirit in Templar armour, and the howling, maddened demon stuck fast on the end of its sword when Soren fell away from both entities. She did not know if the demon had actually possessed him or if it had merely been hiding close to him and shrouded in his own negative emotions to escape detection. These were important distinctions to make, but she was blinded: she could not think of such things.

She saw him struck, she saw him fall, but she would not see him die. Morrigan’s staff hit the floor with her knees and her hands were on him, gripping and searching for life.

 _“Soren!_ ” He was unspeakably hot, his armour glowing with energy from the Fade. Smoke was trailing from the wide gash cut and sizzling through the shield that should have protected his back, blood welling up and obscuring the awful damage, spreading across the layers of his clothes and armour and wetting his sides. Blood was pooling fast and dangerous under his chest.

 _“Move!_ Keep him awake!” Velanna dashed and reached them, skidding to her knees with her hands welling up quickly with blue light. She came down on Soren’s other side and Morrigan searched for his face. She pulled off the badly damaged helmet and flung it aside, raking her hands back through his bloodied hair where he lay on the ground bleeding. His eyes were open, dumbstruck, his lips slack but breathing- _barely_.

This was her fault.

He’d wanted to turn back: she’d goaded him, forced him to- _This was her fault._

_She’d done this._

_This was her fault, this was-_

_-your fault._

Morrigan screamed because it was what the pain of defeat left her with. She stood and turned and threw both hands out at the demon twisting its wicked, razor-edged way through her mind. She pulled deep, and drew from dark places, hurting places, knowledge and power that rippled like the hot blood on the floor.

The magic did not _have_ a name, but it had purpose. Black and sandy and filled with thrilling focus, it struck the bulbous, hanging stone body of Guilt and made it swing wildly through the air, recoiling from a grenade blast thrown by Nathaniel and snakes of primal magic woven from Lavellan’s staff. Like a great millstone possessed of arms and a head and free movement from its rotted origins, Guilt swung itself away from its attackers, the strikes upon its form unleashing horrible sounds of mistakes and burdens and all the things that could haunt a warrior beyond the edge of battle.

Morrigan caught it again, burned it, threw it to the ground where Dinah’s snapping jaws found one of its arms and clamped down with shredding force. Another explosion of hot white light and foul chemistry carved through its misshapen body and Nathaniel was pulling yet another bottle from his belt to ready and throw. Lavellan flipped his staff, wielded it back far behind him, and with his entire body he swung the weapon up and around like a mighty hammer-blow, lancing the demon with gold light that charred and chiselled down through stone.

Duty leapt where Mahanon’s magic faded and planted the same cursed sword from Soren’s back through Guilt’s heart, and the demon died with an echoing scream. It was briefly petrified before the Fade began to suck its ashes back into the beyond.

Morrigan’s back was already turned on it, her knees on the cold floor, her hands on her Warden. Velanna had turned him onto his back, his shield thrown aside and vacant eyes staring up at nothing, the front of his robes and armour were dark with blood. Morrigan gathered him in her arms and it did not stop Velanna’s work, symbols and circles of magical power drawn together and threaded into a chain feeding into his chest and torso.

“The demon is vanquished.”

“You _bastard!_ ” Nathaniel spat, his anger resonating with Dinah’s sharp snaps and growls.

Lavellan’s steps beat the stone floor and he arrived at Morrigan’s right, staff down and hands open to begin threading his own magic into Velanna’s tapestry of light. Soren was still bleeding and Velanna’s work made it slow, but not stop. Something was wrong because Soren had not regained his lucidity, he was not speaking or focused, and he lay heavy and limp in Morrigan’s embrace.

He blinked his eyes once, said nothing, and felt colder in her embrace than he had before. He had not been struck with normal steel, and the will that had caused him harm had not been directed _at him_ presumably. There really had been a demon, and Duty had acted accordingly, but the result of its actions was still _this agony_.

“Soren…”

“I can’t stop it-” Velanna admitted in a hushed voice.

“Focus on the bleeding,” Lavellan told her.

“But-”

“It doesn’t matter if he’s _dead_.” Lavellan swept his hands wide and Morrigan felt him gather Velanna’s threads and patterns between his own fingers, taking control of the spell and relegating her to _his_ aid and support. Neither of them were Spirit Healers like the mage in her arms, so they had to work together to accomplish a task Soren himself could have handled alone.

“He will not die,” Morrigan told them both. She curled her arm around him, under his injured shoulder and across his chest high above the weeping wound in his body. Her other hand snaked its way down under his chin and up to hold his cheek, shielding him from the work being done, holding him to her. “You will not die.”

“I will assist him, as is my-”

“ _You’ll stay the fuck away from him!_ ” Nathaniel shouted at Duty and Dinah charged, jaws snapping as she jumped at the Templar’s shield. Sephri’s glyph of repelling, shocking magic knocked the spirit off its feet and back, though the Fade-sent creature managed to land upright and skid, shield high, rather than fall to Dinah’s claws and lethal bite.

The spirit did not aggress against them, but Dinah did, and Nathaniel, and Sephri. Morrigan did not stop them: the Spirit had made its choice and she would not leave Soren with the results of it. He was not going to die, but if he should: it would, without compromise, be in her arms.

The two elves worked in tense silence until Velanna took a long, shaken breath. Her eyes were sunken and her skin very pale, the blight scars around her mouth and eyes drawing themselves black from stress.

“Mahanon, it’s draining away.” Her voice was soft and barely spoken, Sephri’s magic crackling through the cold air.

“I know.”

“I don’t know how to fix it- I don’t know what’s _wrong_ -”

“ _I know,_ ”

“ _Then stop it!_ ” Velanna shouted, “If you know then fix it before he loses _everything!_ ”

Morrigan held Soren closer to her, her lips in his soft hair and her eyes folding shut. She was no healer, but she opened her mind to the scanty curtain of the veil and the warbling cries of the Fade.

Something was _wrong_.

Where the veil was pocketed and thin around them, when it touched Soren’s body it became rigid. It acted as if his spirit had herniated and the veil’s threads were sharp and unyielding like razor wire, twisted around the twisted coils of spirit. The threads were knotted and resisted the draw of magic through his bleeding body, flaring intensely with their echoes of ancient and artificial magic ravaging the natural flow of energy through flesh.

Faintly, but far: she felt anxiety, and frustration, and anger mixed with fear. Terror was nibbling at those razors and cutting its mouth, not a demon: just the raw emotions of the man struggling in her arms.

Mahanon’s glowing palm circled twice over her Warden’s dying body. He was bleeding, he was _still bleeding_ , and his heart was sustained only by the raw burn of the darkspawn taint. He would die if they didn’t tie off the spell and let it work to knit flesh and bone and organ back together, but like any healing the same risk applied now: anything not healed properly when fresh could not be healed again later after fused improperly shut.

“The only thing left is his life,” Mahanon pronounced and Morrigan didn’t understand him as clearly as Soren did.

Fear devoured frustration and terror overcame anger. Hysteria screamed from the mouth of anxiety and Morrigan saw it, she _felt it_.

Herniated; separated, just a small part of who he was and what he was and what every elf in creation had once been before the Veil had rendered them something other and new. His spirit was not entirely _in_ his body, that piece of it, that _part of him_ pulled out by the demon pulled out by the sword and when Mahanon circled his hand and pressed the spell _together-_ And he knew.

“ _Kill me first-_ ” Soren whimpered.

It was a burn of colourless light and a trap snapping closed. The wires pulled tight and soul was split like soft wax between the cutting lines. An inaudible sound screeched through the veil, tapered off into nothing, and was gone.

The finality of that statement eluded her. He was _gone_.

_My friend..?_

Duty’s corporeal image shattered in a rain of stardust, a faint blue glow sweeping down under the wicked dagger Nathaniel slashed the air with. The spirit spun, darted, and flew fast like a fairy light through the air with Dinah in fast, murderous pursuit.

Soren was awake, lucid, and Morrigan saw him bend one knee before he lifted one hand to her arm. He gripped tight through his gauntlets and felt down her forearm. With her other arm under his shoulder, she felt his heartbeat pick up, and then go faster, and his body went terribly rigid.

“Commander, _breathe-_ ” Lavellan urged him, hands on Soren now and tilting him in Morrigan’s numb arms. His face was turned to the other elf and with a shaken gasp his body heaved and he vomited red foam and sour bile into the cold blood he’d already shed. Morrigan twisted and kept her arms around him, stroking his hair and gathering it behind his ear. She combed the sweat suddenly perspiring across his skin away with her fingertips. His heart was slamming wildly, but he said nothing before vomiting again.

No. No. No, it had not happened, he was not-

“Soren?” She whispered and he did not answer her.

Velanna’s face was tear-stained and furious, and with a feral scream she flung both her hands up at the spirit of Duty streaking for them. Ice crystalized and cut down through the Spirit’s path, slamming it down to the floor like a bird stunned by a rock. Dinah’s jaws snapped shut and the light leapt and spiralled wildly to escape, jumping like a fish before ghostly hands scraped the floor looking for purchase.

The thin veil gave the electric charge of Sephri’s white blast more focus and effect than it should have had. An arrow armed with an alchemical copper head landed right on the tile where the spirit floundered one last time. With a concussive burst of hateful fire, Duty was split into pieces and scattered, thoughtless, formless, through the terrorized air.

It all went very quiet after that.

 _“Soren?”_ She repeated. He was on his side but still hooked by her arm, her hand brushing back his hair, her body protecting his because he _needed_ her. “ _Soren_ , speak to me-”

“He needs to sleep,” Mahanon cautioned-

“He needs to _answer me!_ ” She screamed at him, near to igniting the air and the floor and the blood with _her power_. “I saw what you did- _I felt it!_ You will not come near him again!”

Reservation touched his crinkled eyes and Mahanon edged back on his knees, not afraid of her, but remorseful. That just made it _worse_.

“If there had been any other way, more time or less urgency, do you not think I would have taken it, Lady Morrigan?”

“The fact that there was not is the _only reason_ that _you are still **alive!** ”_

And now the blood did ignite, and it was _powerful_ magic. The life energy encased in blood was like none other, and it burned so hot and so _black_ it shrouded and shadowed the entire room. Lurking demons and curious spirits drawn by the howling in her spirit were driven back, frightened off by magic far older and more threatening than most of what this tower had housed since Tevinter’s time. The Wardens were forced to retreat from her, to shy away from rage and sorrow and disbelief as Morrigan twisted the smoke and silk of her spirit between her fingers and fed magic through the thin pockets of the veil.

“ _Leave me with him…_ ” He had neither moved nor spoken, his breaths coming fast and short. She knew why not but could not bear to _think_ it to herself. He was awake but pale and cold from blood-loss, his skin ashen and burnt hair matted from sweat, heart slamming violently in his ribs. He trembled in her arms like a feverish child, his blue eyes focused on her face but his lips mute, hands limp. Morrigan gathered him close to her and closed her eyes, touching her forehead to his, trying to breathe calm back into him over the putrid smell of his own blood. “ _Leave us…_ ”

The Wardens’ hesitation came from loyalty, but that did not sway her. She did not release the spell and she _would not_ until they were ready to leave this place. Their footsteps retreated, broken and miserable sobs from Velanna piecing the words of an explanation together for her husband and the other mage. They left the doors to the Harrowing Chamber open, and from the bottom of the stairs Morrigan heard when Sephri’s voice rose in shock, and Mahanon’s in firm explanation, and Nathaniel began to shout and rage and scream his disbelief.

The only companion who did not leave was Dinah. The hound whined and whimpered desperately at the edge of Soren’s blood, bound to stay with him by a compulsion not even Morrigan could overrule.

She let the mabari approach through the flames, and Dinah took her strides slowly, head low, eyes sad and warry. She came to her master’s side and nosed at his hand, then settled on the tainted stones with her head on his hip, whining persistently but softly for him to acknowledge her. He did not.

But he spoke. Breaths panting, and every word a labour of intent…

“Am I- dead…?” Morrigan lifted her brow from his and looked down at him, her face wetting his with tears which she brushed away gently, shaking her head.

“No… No, my love, you’re still here.” He was not comforted.

“I should be- dead…”

“No, Soren,” she hushed, brushing his thin, soft hair back over his forehead. “ _Shh… No, stay with me…_ ” He would need food and he would need rest, and he would- need _time._ They would all need time…

“It’s gone…” She kissed him, tasted the blood there was strongly as she could smell it. He did not kiss back. “It’s quiet…”

“The demons are all dead, my love, your Wardens are waiting for us downstairs.”

“No-” His voice was hollow, it hardly sounded like his. “It’s still.”

“ _It will come back…”_

 _“_ The water…”

“ _Shh, husband, shh…”_ She kissed his unblemished forehead, rested her cheek down in the same place. She was weeping and she held him too tightly, but he neither mimicked nor reproached her for it. His body trembled and remained limp in her arms, his heart screaming because his soul could not. His voice was broken up by short breaths, but held no fear in it, no confusion, or pain, or wonder… He just spoke. He was suffering, but he was calm.

“… it’s gone.”

He was so… _calm…_


	34. Her Warden

 

Although it was not widely known or of interest to the lay peoples of Thedas, unless their urgent and immediate needs were consistently met and maintained, a mage just cut off from the Fade could very easily and very suddenly perish.

Morrigan would not allow it, but stubborn will would not be enough.

She was no healer and the trauma of his wounds and blood-loss alone could have undone Soren if not for his Warden traits. The spiritual trauma had left his body nearly paralyzed: he could not sit or stand on his own, and his lucid moments flagged by pitifully. The vomiting that erupted suddenly and violently several times an hour ruined his voice and brought up more blood with which to worry her.

All of this, Warden Sephri told her in a low voice, was normal for a Tranquil. Morrigan nearly struck her for using that word to describe him.

Getting him out of the tower alone was a trial, getting him off the island was nearly dire enough for Morrigan to consider more old, forbidden magic just to carry him off anywhere safe. It was too dark for the ferryman to reach them across the polluted waters, and they had to spend a cold, frantic night on the black sandy beach atop the bones of dead apprentices and listening for the rattle of shambling corpses. Morrigan _chose_ to hold her Warden in her arms throughout the night, sheltering him from both the wind and the prying attention of his soldiers.

Velanna kept weaving spells together but Sephri warned her harshly away from their Commander’s side. Magic would only inflame the situation, she cautioned, not sooth it.

“Without another Tranquil _here_ to coach him through the change, Lady Morrigan is doing what is best for him,” The Marcher Warden told them all. “He needs to stay calm and try to eat, even if he cannot: he must _try_.”

He kept down no food and did not sleep, feverish and struggling to decide between laying still or getting up. When the boat came at dawn he was grey and bloodless, but still breathing.

When they reached the opposite shore and the inn Morrigan left the matter of coin and provision to Nathaniel, taking Soren upstairs where she alone tended to him. The ruined armour and bloodied clothes came off, she washed and put him to bed and throughout it all he offered only broken, senseless speech. He breathed more easily once he was warm and tended, but vomited again when fed broth from the kitchen below. She gave him tea of steeped ginger and mint from her pack but he held it down only moderately better.

“You are a Grey Warden and you _must eat_ , Soren…” He would wither and weaken if he did not. True as it was that Wardens could go longer without food if pressed by the Deep Roads or the ravages of a Blight, their bodies would rebel soon enough.

It was Nathaniel, the senior warden and one now in command of the mages with them, who cut through the anxious murmurs of the other in his company and brought Morrigan a bowl of shredded meat stewed in thick fat and gravy. Common sense said their Commander would sick up the heavy meal before he even swallowed it, but Nathaniel was brisk and told the others to shut up.

“I’ve been a Warden and under Surana’s command for over ten fucking years.” Morrigan appreciated his belligerence. He was as distraught at the rest of them but managed it without tears or simpering. “Give him one more green thing and _I’ll_ sick it up. I don’t know magic or the veil but I do know the Taint. He needs meat. _Meat_. Give him blood and fat and the Taint will do the rest, you’ll starve him otherwise.”

At this point it could not offer more harm. Soren did not even chew what was placed in his mouth, but used his teeth to pull it past his lips and swallow through his delirium. Morrigan did not know what cuts the flesh had been but to her Warden and true to Nathaniel’s word it did not matter: when he was sick later it was only brackish fluid, the meat itself had dissolved and been taken in. It was _something_.

She did not leave him and she did not permit the others near him. On the second night he was calm and slept deeply under her care. The next morning, now the third day, he was finally lucid.

“…Am I dead?” He repeated his question from the tower, laying on his back in the thin bed, with Morrigan resting on her arm above him. He was exhausted but awake, and when he lifted his cold hand to her face he brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek.

“No, my love,” she answered him gently, clasping his hand and kissing the back of it warmly.

“Is this the Fade, and you a demon?” His voice was rasping and dry, but would heal now that the vomiting had stopped. She lowered her face to his and kissed his brow gently.

“No, Soren, you are very much awake.”

“That cannot be possible,” he stated, his hand falling to his chest. “It must be a dream. I would know if you were Morrigan.”

“ _Shh,_ my love… Tell me how you’ve come to that conclusion?”

“Because when I see her I become warm,” he was so tired and his words slipped over his mumbling lips, but he remained awake. “I feel it softly in the tug of my magic, like a spring current through winter waters. Her presence comforts and sooths me, and I love her every time I see or think of her. I don’t love you, demon, but I can’t find what should be here to banish you with…”

She gathered him in her arms and he didn’t resist. She kissed his nose and his brow and his cheeks. His only protest that entire morning even gave her hope, because it was too much like him to believe he was truly gone.

“I will succumb to no demon… Between Morrigan and Connor, this illusion won’t hold me long…”

Her tears justified to him that this was all a terrible prison constructed by the demons of Kinloch Hold. As he could not dream when he slept, he had no access to the Fade to prove otherwise. She did not challenge his belief. Between Morrigan and Connor, this _reality_ would not hold him long.

“It can be reversed,” Morrigan stated on the fourth day, when Soren was strong enough to walk again, although he insisted openly that this was all an illusion and that Morrigan was a demon holding him in place.

“It can,” Sephri allowed as they spoke, and Soren was present but gave no indication of listening. “But no one knows _how_.”

“The Inquisitor does,” Morrigan told the other woman shrewdly. “And if not her, then the Lady Seeker Pentaghast. And if not _her_ then I will _find_ whatever method or means are required to bring this nightmare to an end myself.”

“When the war broke out,” Sephri’s voice fell and Morrigan was annoyed with her hesitation. “They said that the Enchanter who brought Pharamond back to the White Spire was named Rhys.” Wynne’s son. Although Sephri did not need to know of the connection, Soren had learned of the Enchanter from Wynne, and Wynne had died in the White Spire at it’s Annulment. “I know he was at Andoral’s Reach after the Circles were annulled and he voted in the final Conclave on whether the mages should surrender or fight, but I was with the Tranquil in Amaranthine. I couldn’t find him in the chaos of the fighting and came back to Amaranthine when the Breach killed Divine Justinia.”

“The Inquisitor is reclusive, yes,” Morrigan stated, sweeping away the suggestion of hunting down an Enchanter missing for near five years. “But she is still a political force in Thedas and she will not deny me if I seek her out.”

They left for home over a fortnight since they had departed, on the first morning of Firstfall, the day of of the Chantry’s Satinalia event. Out in near enough to the middle of nowhere, they encountered none of the festivities, not even a small hamlet after the Spoiled Princess was put behind them. Through snow and rain and Nathaniel was the one to lead the party. Soren made no comment on the matter but Morrigan knew he was aware of it for he kept his attention focused on the other Warden’s back.

Soren was not an chatty person by nature, but there was little else to do whilst riding across the country and Morrigan had always known him to be at his _most_ talkative when on the road somewhere. He was quiet for the entirety of the first day. They made camp in the thickest part of a snow-heavy forest many miles from the shore of Lake Calenhad. The wardens dug into the snow and bent branches to form shelters then covered with the thick canvas of their tents. It was not warm per-se, but it was more tolerable than the open wind.

Still he did not speak, the hood of his cloak up over his head after his damaged helmet had been abandoned in the tower. He regarded their camp without comment or interest, stayed where Morrigan sat him by the small fire conjured by Velanna’s magic, and did nothing more. He did not speak when Mahanon presented him with warm food, or accept an offer from Nathaniel to drink from a flask. He said nothing regarding their progress for the day or their intended route through the hills to reach the imperial highway.

His silence unnerved and upset his wardens, who did not sleep well in their hovels that night. Morrigan lay with her arms around Soren after removing several of the metal pieces of his armour, but he did not speak to her or acknowledge her embrace. If he slept, he did not move. In the morning he watched her but said nothing. He donned his armour, ate his rations, saddled his horse, and spent another day in silence watching Nathaniel lead his company.

Two days later he broke his silence to tell Morrigan her plan would not work: she could insult him all she liked, but he would not give in to anger or pride. He could not feel anything, he said, and considered her actions petulant.

“And how, exactly, have I sought to offend you?” She asked her question but did not pin her hopes on hearing an answer as the sky grew dark over another rainy camp in the woods. If he was determined to be silent, he would remain so.

He surprised her.

“The Wardens act as though I am not here and carry on without acknowledging me.” His Wardens were silent listening to him speak for the first time in days. Morrigan did not look at them, she watched Soren put his words together. “Treat me as an invalid if you gain some satisfaction from it, but if you were wise enough to do real harm you would not have chosen Nathaniel to lead.”

“What is wrong with choosing Warden Howe, if indeed it was my decision and not his own?”

“Nothing, which is precisely the point. Replacing me with someone competent is not an insult to my command.”

“Perhaps I am not a demon as you assume.”

“Only a demon would be vain and proud enough to wear her face. I assure you, when the Inheritor breaches your realm, she will take great satisfaction in burning her image from your flesh.”

Morrigan did not, honestly, know if she was more flattered or unnerved by his assertion. On the one hand it was reassuring to hear the confidence and factual explanation of his high regard for her. On the other, it meant he imagined Morrigan’s own image screaming and burning away in the wake of magical wrath.

Sephri perceived no such ambiguity.

“I know I said you were doing the right thing back at the lake,” another day of slow, miserable winter weather, but now with the other woman riding next to her under her Warden cowl and cloak. “But if he truly believes you’re a demon, Lady Morrigan, then he will try to hurt you.”

“He is convinced he will be rescued, Warden.”

“Since when has the Warden Commander ever sat around waiting for help?” Sephri was an irritating sort of person and Morrigan considered throwing the Warden from her horse for being such an annoyance. “This was not a punishment carried out at the end of a sentence, Lady Morrigan, he didn’t know what was happening and he wasn’t prepared for it- not even warned. If he’s convinced something else happened and that he’s not tranquil, then he won’t act like one. He has no reason to defer or obey _anyone._ ”

“So the truth comes out at last, does it?” She sneered at the other mage. “Tranquil are not meek and obedient by nature, but by condition? How _revolutionary_.”

“Lady Morrigan-”

“He will not harm me and even if he should, I will not have his spirit broken. We will return to Vigil’s Keep, this will be kept quiet, and he will be restored before Wintersend.”

That night she observed him watching his hands carefully by the weak firelight, flexing his scarred fingers over and over, one at a time. She recognized the pattern of movements as him trying to initiate a basic spell form, but there was nothing for him to draw from and weave together. After at least a quarter-hour of these fruitless exercises, he put a hand to his chest and became very pale, clearly in distress, and retired to the shadows of the lonely tent where he slept alone until dawn.

He bore no tranquil brand on his forehead, but his back was badly scarred. The mark on his chest was faint by comparison to the deep burn across his spine, the wound as wide as the blade which had pierced his body and torn his soul before the spell that had saved his life had cut off his magic. Since the inn Morrigan had not approached him to see if it was recovering at all, but she did not think he would resist her.

The next morning as they rode his hands continued to try and draw magic, and at midday his health took a sudden turn and they were forced to stop for an hour. He became ill and vomited, and Morrigan desired to smack Sephri when the Warden dismounted and told him he must stop trying to cast magic because he was irritating the damage.

Soren did not answer her, but for the rest of the day he did not watch Nathaniel lead them, he watched Sephri riding at Velanna’s side.

That night he tried to stab Morrigan. Had she been asleep, her love would have succeeded in ramming the blade through her heart.

His gold-hilted dagger pierced her hand through the palm she raised to block it, and her hand instinctively at his throat spilled corroding magic around his neck and up his face, forcing him to recoil and retreat from her. The commotion brought Lavellan, who was on watch, to their tent and his staff slammed down between them: a cage of thorns and roots ripping from the sodden ground and trapping Soren tightly in place.

And yet somehow the situation managed to make itself worse.

“Why-?” Soren’s voice was quiet in the moment of his capture, the ground still puckering and the magic-infused branches shedding damp soil and frost as they closed around his arms and legs.  He was not looking at either of them, his gaze cast somewhere aimless. “Why am I- not angry?”

He tried to move, but it was just a throw of his shoulder and a feeble kick of his leg. Lavellan, and Sephri, and Velanna and Nathaniel were all present now, the Dalish woman’s hands trying to clasp and sooth the damage torn through Morrigan’s bleeding palm and wrist.

“Why am I not angry?” He repeated, his voice clear but flat. “Why am I not afraid?” Another weak struggle, brief and useless. “This is not the Fade: it does not bend-” He dropped his head and tried to move, but it failed. “Why- can I not do anything?”

“Because you’re caught in what’s known as _struggle_ ,” Sephri spoke to him and it was _intrusive_ but Morrigan did not know what to _do_ as Velanna healed her. “And the only way to get through it, Commander, is to surrender to it.”

“I will not yield.”

“Then it will not stop,” Sephri came down on a knee in front of him, but when the roots shifted to release him she held up a hand and signalled Lavellan to halt. “This is not the Fade, Commander, and there are no demons here. Magic can shroud and it can change and it can alter, ser, but it cannot _lie_.”

“Struggle is a word the Tranquil use. I am not one of them.”

“Magic cannot lie,” Sephri repeated, and gathered her hands together with soft white light collecting between her hands. “Watch what I weave for you, tell me what it is.”

“I will not go along with this, demon. I am not tranquil.”

“You are, and I will prove it to you.”

“Sephri-” Lavellan took a step to stop her, but she twisted and shouted back at him first.

“This is not helping him!” She yelled. “Struggle is _painful_. It doesn’t _go away_ unless he stops fighting, and he won’t stop until he understands why he _must_! If your leg is caught in a trap you don’t thrash and kick and tear to make it better, you calm down and you _think_ and then you get out of it. If he keeps fighting, he’ll kill himself!”

“He will _not_ succumb to this,” Morrigan argued, but her voice was faint. It drew Sephri’s attention to her and _curse the Warden_ , she did not shout or yell at Morrigan, but spoke honestly and with pain.

“It was a sword through his chest, not a brand to his head, so _maybe_ it’s different,” she admitted. “But that just makes it even _more_ likely that something will still go wrong.”

“It’s been a _week_ ,” Velanna hushed.

“And he’s still fighting. It _will_ kill him.” It would do no such thing, it wasn’t _allowed to_. Sephri looked at Soren again and he had not moved or changed his face at all. He listened when his Warden repeated herself one more time: “Magic does not lie.”

Sephri’s spell was easy. It was simple. It was too basic to glamour and pretend it was anything but a soft white weave of light drawn from the Fade. It would feel warm and pleasant to the touch, a precursor to so many healing spells.

She cast the magic over Soren’s knee and his leg recoiled, a disturbed shuffle quaking through him. She touched it to his scarred hand, something any mage should have been able to take advantage of and counter on their own. Soren’s fingers tensed and twitched fiercely with the memory of spell-weaving, but he could draw on nothing and exhaled in pain from the attempt.

“ _I am not tranquil_ ,” he repeated, but his voice was raw and the gentle light swept over his other shoulder. He closed his eyes and recoiled again. “ _This is a dream- I am asleep-_ ”

“You cannot dream, because you are cut off from the Fade,” Sephri told him firmly and she did not waver. She withdrew her harmless magic from him but Soren’s shaking and pulling did not relent. He broke into harsh, wet coughs and bowed his head, fighting on and on. “You cannot reach your magic, because you are cut off from the Fade. And you cannot rage, or weep, or scream, or panic, because you, Commander Surana, are _cut off from the Fade._ You must stop struggling, or this fight will kill you.”

“ _Then I choose death-_ ” His lips were red with blood.

“Release him and leave us.” Morrigan’s chest felt crushed by the words, and she stood up. The tent had been torn down by the magic and struggle, there was only the empty black sky and the quiet snow-clad trees around them, the high moon and two mage lamps the only light. None of the Wardens moved at her order. “Release him and _leave us_.”

They finally obeyed her. There was not far for them to go, but they would need their rest before continuing the journey east tomorrow morning. Morrigan cast her own light to replace the ones taken away by the other mages, and when they were far enough across the snowy camp to duck into their own tents or tend the startled horses, Morrigan went to her Warden.

He had not moved since Lavellan’s spell had unravelled around him. He was just sitting there in the middle of the ruined tent, his scarred hands turned palms-up to his face. His fingers flexed and curled, but there was nothing for him to weave together.

“This can be undone,” she told him, coming down over one of his thighs and reaching out to take his face. He did not resist her and he looked at her with his blank, absent blue eyes as she swept his thin hair back and she stroked his cheeks with her thumbs. “This _will_ be undone, my love.”

“I cannot be tranquil,” he repeated.

“It is a crime against _who you are_ , and it will be _undone_ ,” she repeated. “You are an Archmage, you are a sorcerer of incredible skill and power, and you _will_ be restored.”

“The Inquisition-” he began but Soren did not finish the thought. Morrigan had to just sit there and nod and try to encourage him.

“Inquisitor Lavellan knows,” she agreed, feeling her throat begin to close up tightly. “If she cannot describe the ritual itself, then Lady Seeker Pentaghast will, and if the Inquisitor cannot compel her then the Divine will command it.”

“Leliana cannot know,” he said. There was no fear or urgency in him, but he said it clearly to her. “Do not tell her what has happened to me, it is not a secret Val Royeaux can keep.” She was- not entirely certain what he was warning her away from.

“Her eccentricities aside, my love, Leliana would never use this against you?” Did he know something Morrigan did not, despite her months of working alongside their old companion when she had been Spymaster and Seneschal of Skyhold?

“Leliana will not harm me, but Brona will.”

“The- Grand Cleric of _Amaranthine?_ ” Morrigan repeated, because he was no longer making sense. “Soren, that old woman has nothing to do with-”

“Brona will have me struck down as Arl.”

“That is ridiculous-”

“I am compromised, Morrigan.” He did not panic or yell as he spoke to her, he just put his words together one after the other in a drudging line of awful thoughts: the results of a week’s horrid silence.

“If I am Tranquil,” he said, eyes cast nowhere in the twilight, “Then my title as Archmage is already forfeit. If I am no longer an Archmage, then I have lost my standing within the College, and my authority over the Formari Guildsmen will falter as soon as word crosses the Waking Sea to Cumberland. Either the Chantry or the College will take the Guildsmen from Amaranthine, because I will be summoned to Denerim on the authority of Alistair when he is pressured by the Grand Cleric of Denerim answering her sister from Amarnthine, or on the authority of Anora, when she is informed by Brona that I am weak. I will be paraded before court and country as an invalid stripped of his pride and ability, and I will lose Amaranthine when a vote on my leadership is called and my Banns are swayed by Brona’s control of the Arling’s chantries. Brona will have me struck down as Arl, but for once the thought does not frighten me.”

“ _None_ of that will-” Morrigan’s words caught and choked her, because she felt a sharp kick land in her chest and her thoughts were wrenched back by the last plodding thing he said. “What do you mean _for once_ she doesn’t frighten you?” Brona was a non-issue! Anora she could have seen, or his Banns, but not-

“I have been afraid of the Grand Cleric since I became Arl after Howe.” Morrigan wanted to shake him! He could not be serious, but his vacant eyes widened briefly like some memory of surprise before he spoke again. “I said it.”

“You said _nonsense,_ ” she cut back at him.

“No, I spoke without inhibition,” his answer was too- too _cold_ for this! “I did not- I do not feel the weight pressing down on me. I can still hear Irving, but he is quiet. It is as if he is speaking to a wall and not to me. I am more afraid of the Grand Cleric than I ever have been of the Queen, and Anora terrifies me.”

“No!” Morrigan snapped, and pushed her hand over his bloodied mouth. “ _No._ Stop saying such horrible things, it is not like you, and it would embarrass you to have it said aloud. _You_ are the Warden Commander of Ferelden, and _you_ are afraid of _no one._ ” She slid her hand away from his lips, rubbing the bottom one with her thumb to try and smear away some of what he’d coughed up. He watched her for a few seconds in silence, his face slack and eyes still vacant as he sat there.

“For once, Morrigan, I think you’re right. I’m not afraid. I should be, but I’m not.”

“We will fix this, Soren.”

“I’ve never known emptiness like this,” he told her, but his voice was still pitched _exactly the same_. “You’re right in front of me, but it’s as if you’re still a thousand miles away, Morrigan.”

“I am _right here,_ ” and she crawled closer. She climbed into his lap and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, hugged him with her face pressed past his. She felt his arms lift and his hands search for a way to hold her, but it didn’t feel right. He didn’t squeeze her properly, his touch shifted over and around like he didn’t know what to do with her this close to him. “And we’re going to get you _home_.”

“You would be better served… by taking me to Kal’Hirol.”

“Why?” She asked, and she did not lift her head to look at him. His hair was soft but so much of him was cold from sitting here exposed in the winter night. He had laid down to sleep in his gambeson and robes before attacking her, it was too cold for him to have dressed otherwise. “What is in Kal’Hirol?” The dwarven thaig he had helped to clear of Darkspawn, permitting the Dwarves of Orzammar to reclaim it.

“The deep roads,” he answered blankly. “Any story could be woven: that I heard my Calling; or there was a sign of darkspawn near the surface, a cave-in, an ambush, the Architect himself rising again toward daylight until I tried and failed to strike him down.”

She tightened her hold on him, felt her weight roll onto her knees as she clutched around his head. No.

“You are not going into the deep roads _now_ ,” she hushed him, “not like _this_.” He would never make it more than a half-mile through the broken low ways before his skills in melee failed him.

“It is a Warden death,” he answered her, “and the Order is the only thing I have left, Morrigan. When Connor returns from the Anderfels he may track the course I took and reclaim my arms. He would have use for my staff, and he could find my sword for Kieran.”

“You are _not_ ,” she repeated, her chest tight and throat closing up painfully. “-going into the _deep roads._ ” He smelled as he should have, like horses and leather and a sharpness that was just him. His heart beat as it should have, close to hers but muffled by his thick clothes. His hair was soft, the curve of his ear was right, the smooth but strong lines of his jaw rested as they always had when she held him.

“I choose death before dishonour: I am no failed apprentice to be pitied or the new posterchild for the Divine’s reforms. One public appearance is all that is required to shame my memory, Morrigan. Lead me to Kal’Hirol.”

“ _No!_ ” She shouted, tearing away from him and twisting her fingers in the laces of the blue gambeson. She held tightly to him, refused to shake or slap or do anything else to harm him, because it would _fix nothing_. “You will be _restored_. It can be done- it _will!_ And you are too proud and too powerful to let yourself die before that moment comes to pass. You are _my Warden_ and you will _be restored_.”

He was quiet and did not react to her. She wanted to shake him but resisted, to kiss him, to push him down and just make him _feel anything_ , but it would do nothing. This was not something which could be resolved by wishing, hoping, and making sparkling promises.

Soren closed his eyes and bowed his head to her, using his hands to carefully work hers free where she was gripping him tight. He opened the hand Velanna had healed for her, revealing the bright pink and red of freshly fused flesh. It would not scar and did not hurt, but he turned her palm over so he could see it, his burnt fingertips cold in the winter night. Soren held his other hand with its fingers poised a few inches above the healed wound, but nothing happened. She saw his fingers curl very subtly, how his ring finger twitched, trying to shake loose strands of power that would no longer flow from him.

“My beautiful, naïve, Morrigan…” He did not look up at her as he spoke, but his words and his struggle caused a bead of blood to drip from the corner of his mouth, staining his pale skin with a single dark line to his chin. “What makes you think there will be enough left of me to restore?”

“Soren,” she pulled her hand free and used both to caress his face again. He _could not_ die from this… “ _Please…”_

He stared at her with his eyes robbed of life and feeling. He spoke, and it was dead air that passed his lips with nothing but the echo of his voice.

“Lead me to Kal’Hirol.”

 


	35. Keepsake

 

In a fortnight, Jylan had become very busy.

He posted his letter to Midwife Valora with one of the merchant caravans headed for Denerim after the harbour froze. He was provided with a modest assortment of tools and reagents for his work during the small hours of the morning at the Twisted Tail. In his first week he produced a batch of cured and measured herbs meant to steep into a bitter tea and administered to keep the womens’ bodies from accepting male seed and producing children. A cream very similar in consistency to elfroot poultice was made with embrium instead, scented with crushed cardamom, to put threatening patrons to sleep when massaged into their flesh.

He was awarded fifty copper for his work. A small amount, but sufficient to barter and resupply the family’s larder for the next week.

The fireplace and sink were repaired and paid for. Because Jylan had provided raw silver at the outset and had not bartered down the quote for the repair, the men had made a gesture of good faith towards their family: a small brick ledge and metal door had been built into the hearth, a small bread oven, and it incurred no additional cost. There were now four well-anchored hooks in the masonry to hold whatever pots required heating. The pump protested when used, but brought fresh, clean water into the home. Sixty silver were paid for the hard work, and Jylan commissioned an additional silver to set the front door properly and put in a simple latch lock from one of the men.

Rian returned home and the arrangements for sleeping were shuffled and changed. Ariyah slept on the main level with her children in the large bed by the fire. Rian reclaimed his bedroom with a small charcoal brazier to keep him warm. Samar complained about the broken window in his own room and opted to remain on the main level with Ariyah, citing that it would be unwise to keep them unprotected in the first room any robbers would burst into. Jylan was moved into his sister’s room with the bed properly made and Dirthamen to provide warmth.

His belongings were unpacked, though most of the tools remained stacked neatly in a pile on the floor in Ariyah’s room as he did not consider it necessary to bring them to the brothel and risk their theft.

 Ariyah’s health recovered and with her, the entire house changed dramatically. She ensured that the home was warm, clothing was washed, and each member of the family able, or in Tahir’s case, forced, to bathe. Modesty and privacy were not necessary in such close living conditions and the main room was the warmest part of the house: the hot water was poured into a wooden tub in the middle of the floor. Jylan was not affected by embarrassment to begin with, and had lived in the Circle of Magi’s communal dormitories anyways. It was good to be clean.

Dirthamen had to be encouraged to enter the tub, and would not permit anyone but Jylan to scrub his fouled paws or stained shoulders. Next time he resolved to bathe the dog before himself, because they ended the experience with Jylan nearly as wet and soap-speckled as the hound. The children found this endlessly entertaining.

The sheets that had been drying for days in the house were taken down and ironed by Ariyah, who delivered them with Jylan’s aid to several human households. She earned only some sixteen copper for her work, as well as several scoldings for it taking so long. His sister brought the new loads home and set herself a significant workload: one pot of water was constantly boiling in a familiar way Jylan took note of. This water was used to wash one batch of sheets per day, and another pot was boiled to prepare the family’s meals.

Himself, Rian, and Ariyah were consistently the first ones awake. They fell into an easy, comfortable routine. As Ariyah was already on the main level, she would stoke the fire from the night before. Jylan would enter the main level and fill the two main pots with water, hanging them by the fire before Rian would creep down and busy himself for a few minutes in the kitchen.

Rian would prepare three cups with herbs for tea: simple mint and lavender, and then he would sit at the table while the water heated up and open a small leather pocket book and a purse of money. He would mark several places in the book and remove a handful of copper coins, leaving them on the table for Ariyah to spend for the day. Jylan would feed Dirthamen from last night’s scraps while his siblings discussed the daily costs for the household, and then fill the cups when the water was sufficiently hot.

Ariyah would begin mixing flour and ingredients into bread dough and Rian would eat a bowl of hot rice and beans from the night before with his tea, then leave for the warehouse district where he worked as a clerk and scribe. Jylan would drink his tea and take what remained, if anything, from yesterday’s bread, and then would leave with Dirthamen for the Twisted Tail.

He entered the brothel from the back and discovered if there was work for him or not. If the brothel did not need him, he was dismissed for the day. Otherwise then he was let in by a scullery maid who would glare at him and take him to the kitchens. He would be given a sealed envelope with the day’s requisitions written in it, and for his first week he was watched with hawk-eyed precision by the Madam as he worked to ensure he knew what he was doing. When the supervision came to an end, the contract was formally signed.

Deathroot extract for mild pain symptoms, embrium powder as a sleep or knock-out drug, numbing balm for rashes, cleansing washes for itches, skin cream scented with lavender for dry places, khol nubs broken down and repacked to make shadows for eyes and cheeks.

He would work until noon and be paid on the spot, with the requisition list burned before he left. The hound had a blanket to lay on and would do so under the table. The cook did not like Dirthamen until the second week, when the hound snapped up and swallowed four of the rats that had grown smart enough to avoid the traps but not the mabari. Dirthamen was given a large lamb bone to mouth on and Jylan kept it under the table in the kitchen to ensure the hound would know it was for the work day, not to take home.

Back to the alienage where Dirthamen would be released to go run and yip and play with the elven children, and he did so with great abandon. Jylan would return and take a portion of his sister’s fresh bread and the daily soup, remaining out of her way as she mended clothes, sewed new ones, spun thread, made soap, scrubbed her floors, washed her laundry, molded spent wax into new candles, and kept constantly industrious and busy for the entire day.

He retreated upstairs to the desk in Ariyah’s room, opened the sheer curtains to provide himself with more light, and fixed the formari goggles with their dark lenses over his head. He would put on his work gloves and apron from Amaranthine, with a second pair of gloves from the Merchant’s Guild.

He took out the amber stone from Warden Lavellan and sat down at the desk with the formari tools laid out with several of his steel ones from Amaranthine, and a small square of brown ram leather. One of his cutting boards from Amaranthine protected the desk from the tools as he worked.

He cut and worked the leather using his forearm as a measure, stitching in straight, firm lines with a sharp needle from his sewing kit. The amber needed to be shaped, polished, and then flipped to its rough side and held in a block of clay from outside before he opened the Cherrywood lockbox, extracted the lyrium, and placed one of the vials on the desk within reach. Jylan pulled the goggles over his eyes and carefully removed the other tools from the box, placing them in the stand which they had arrived in.

Enchantment was difficult because it required unwavering focus and an ability to tune out the resonating song of the lyrium at work. Lyrium madness was well known and feared, the glowing blue substance was instantly poisonous to nearly every creature save Dwarves, who could still become addled if it was handled inappropriately. What Jylan had was processed lyrium in liquid form, one of its safest states, but if handled carelessly he would doubtless burn the entire house down with it.

He was tranquil and could not be intimidated or frightened by the volatile substance. He was deaf to the song of the swirling blue mixture, and even if someone were to knock on the door he was capable of tuning such distractions out and keeping his hand steady.

He was not a Formari, but the basics had been given to him in the Circle. He did not attempt something beyond his skill level, but comfortably at the edge of what he knew he could do. It still took several days to place the enchantment, and would require several more to see it set. In the meantime, his room and his clothes stank of burnt sulphur and cold wind from the lyrium.

Dirthamen noticed but learned to ignore it.

Someone else noticed it and did not know how to react.

“Master Ashera,”

“Midwife Surana.”

She was a mage like the Warden Commander, and elven and blonde and small in most dimensions. Jylan had come down from his room after spending two hours working on the amber upstairs and was on hand to open the front door when she knocked, revealing the midwife in a snow-speckled cloak and woven Dalish leathers standing on their doorstep. He moved to let her inside.

“I tell you I’m feeling fine, Neria,” Ariyah clicked her tongue from her kitchen, busy with her hands thinly slicing up a quantity of vegetables for the family’s dinner. “Come sit by the fire, it’s a good and proper one. Tea?”

“Thank you, Ariyah.” Surana entered the home and pulled down her hood. She did not have food with her today and walked to the fire, rubbing her hands together and lowering herself to sit down on the hearthstones, the fire casting warm light through her thin hair. Dirthamen trotted up to her and snuffed curiously at the midwife despite having met her several times before, then returned to where Jylan had reclaimed his seat at the kitchen table with a pen and pot of ink. He was reviewing his sketches and notations of the enchantment, but as this process did not require lyrium he had been persuaded by Samar to spend this time on the main level.

His brother was currently out with the children, presumably to take Sanjay with him to see if his silver would award them a goat to fatten up and then slaughter for First Day at the end of next month, Satinalia was far too close for a similar gesture. When he was home on a winter shore leave Samar rarely worked unless their family’s situation was dire. With Jylan’s contributions, they were in no such danger.

The house was comfortably warmed by the fire, the wood recently replenished by a short trip to the market with money to spare for more milk, eggs, and winter vegetables. The infant was asleep in a small wooden cradle by the fire, his belly full of warm goats’ milk. His weight and energy had not shown significant improvement from the fatty drink but his siblings remained hopeful that this would change. The Midwife had been quietly alarmed by the child’s cough.

“I was hoping you might have some time to speak with me today,” Midwife Surana spoke up, twisting on the hearthstones and looking away from the infant and to Jylan’s sister. He continued to etch the appropriate marks onto the supple paper in front of him.

“Jeevan.” His sister called his name and he looked up at her. Ariyah gave him an expectant look and then nodded to the Midwife, who was looking at him.

“Well?” He closed the book and set the pen down.

“My apologies, I assumed you were addressing my sister.”

“I know you’ve been very busy taking care of your family, so if today is a bad time…” she trailed off without finishing.

“I am not aware of any additional tasks for today; Ariyah is preparing dinner and the children were bathed yesterday.”

“Come sit with me? I don’t want to wake him up by calling across the room.” Surana gestured to the infant’s cradle and Jylan stood up, interrupted briefly by Ariyah sweeping up to him with two cups containing dried tea at the bottom. He brought the cups to the fire and ladled hot water into both so they could steep, then sat down across from her.

Dirthamen immediately crawled as far into his lap as the large hound could manage without approaching the fire, and lolled his adoring tongue out lazily. Jylan stroked the animal’s throat absently, too well accustomed to Dirthamen’s canine smell to notice it any longer. The midwife watched the hound with a soft smile.

“He really does love you, doesn’t he?”

“He is bonded to me by his instincts and compelled by his training.” The children showed him greater affection than Jylan could muster, and it had carried a positive impact on the hound’s general health. Although he had lost some weight with his change of diet, his health had not faltered in the slightest. “Did you come to discuss the mabari?”

“No,” she said, frowning at him as if he had said something wrong, which was likely. When she spoke again her voice was very low, likely meant to keep Ariyah from hearing them. “I came to ask why you stink of lyrium.”

“I possess a basic understanding and skill with enchantment, and have been practicing it on an item of significance.”

“Are you _mad?_ ” Surana asked him in a sharp whisper. “If the Hahren finds out you’re using magic he’ll have the city guards tearing your house apart, and probably you for good measure.”

“It is not magic and I am no longer a mage,” Jylan clarified, but that did not make her wholly wrong. “I understand that the Hahren is pious, but he has left out family alone since my arrival. We have not given him a reason to act out against us.”

“That’s because your cloak and dagger keeps haunting about in the alienage,” The midwife cautioned. It was a reference to Master Arainai, whose visits had been short but frequent. “The quarter noticed you and they’ve noticed _him_ , and he’s crossed paths with your brother-in-law several times just to be seen and smile on his way by. City elves don’t dress like he does, don’t walk around the way he does, and everyone knows he’s here because of you and your family. All Masao is waiting for is your hired help to leave and then you’re on your own.”

“I was not aware of Master Arainai’s influence on the quarter, or that he had engaged with a man significantly beneath him.” As Eli Masao was, in all factual regards, Arainai’s lesser. “I do not know his business in the city but I know he has made it clear that he is to be far south in the Kocari wilds by the end of winter.”

“Then either you need to make nice with the Hahren and get him off your back before Arainai leaves, or you need to give him a good enough scare that they leave you alone for good.” Supplication or confrontation. Neither option seemed agreeable.

As he considered the matter, she grew restless and blurted out something unexpected:

“Did he really come with you from Amaranthine?” Jylan briefly set aside the matter of the Hahren to address this new topic.

“Yes. Master Arainai has been in the service of the Hero of Ferelden since the end of the Fifth Blight, but presumably also travelled with him during its course.” She became very reserved, her gaze losing focus briefly with the flames casting orange light across her face. “He is very well acquainted with the Hero of Ferelden and has served for several years as his personal bodyguard. If you have any questions, I am confident Master Arainai will speak openly of such things with you.” He was a very open and talkative person, and likely very bored lingering in the alienage with nothing of note to do until his mysterious business presented itself.

“You really think he might?” She asked him quietly, and then looked down at her hands, collecting her words slowly before taking a deep breath. “I don’t- I have no idea if we’re related. My mother took me to the Dalish when I was a little girl and my magic surfaced so it was just the two of us living with the Clan. I can make guesses, but I’ve no proof of anything.”

“I can attest to an obvious physical resemblance,” Jylan answered. “However Master Arainai again would be better positioned to offer a comparison of minute similarities. But he is of the same fair complexion as you are, with hair a bit more white and pale, and his eyes are a colder blue nearer to grey. Your stature is comparable, and you are both mages. Archmage Surana is considerably older than you, however, and his manners are very different. He is a commanding and powerful person with a considerate amount of both political and arcane might.”

“I look like him…” She whispered softly, staring vacantly down at Dirthamen, whose weight suggested he had fallen asleep. “How well do _you_ know him?”

“Not well,” Jylan answered. “The Arl is dismissive and carries a very low opinion of the Tranquil, despite his service as Patron of the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine. He in effect saved our lives during the Mage-Templar War, but harbours an intense personal dislike for our disposition. During my employment within Vigil’s Keep I did not regularly speak with or approach him. My dismissal was due in large part to the fact that I incurred his anger directly.”

Surana drew her knees up and hugged them with her arms, watching him with more focus now, the tea still steaming gently between them.

“Is he a very cruel man?”

“Again, I do not know him personally and Master Arainai is one of his closest confidants,” Jylan offered this reminder to her. “He is a fair master to Vigil’s Keep and dutiful to the Arling he controls. Warden Guerrin placed all of his faith in Archmage Surana and has been rewarded many times over for his loyalty. Amaranthine prospers, the Guildsmen are safe, the Grey Wardens have leadership, and the members of his household are well fed and provided for.”

“So what went wrong with you?” She pressed, curiosity burning in her now. “If he’s fair and loyal and kind then-”

“I did not say he was kind,” Jylan corrected. “Connor Guerrin is kind, Soren Surana is dutiful and strict. When he sets an expectation it must be met without question. Those who succeed are rewarded, those who fail are punished: it is as one should expect a mage trained by First Enchanter Irving to conduct himself.”

“What did he do?” She asked, “What did he _make_ you do?”

“It is a complicated matter involving many parties. At it’s crux, however, was the willful decision to withhold vital information from me with which I could have made more appropriate choices for myself and all involved. This breech of trust was committed in an attempt to garner more political power for my former guild, and I answered it with a blatant refusal to participate in the plot. This embarrassed the Arl, who then moved on the recommendation of my former guild to strip me of my employment.”

Surana was very quiet with this information, bare as it was. If she desired more elaboration then Samar would be equipped to do so, although Jylan doubted he would want to speak at length with the midwife. She was uncomfortable and not simply for sitting on the hard warm stones, shifting about a little and sliding off the hearthstones to cross her legs and look up at him.

“I… on my kinsman’s behalf, I apologize for what he put you through.”

“As you currently have no verification of your blood-bond, I do not believe you have that authority. However, I understand the intention and thank you for it.”

“I can’t imagine how angry you must have been…”

“Neither can I, Midwife, I am tranquil.” She pulled a face at him not unlike how An’eth had often responded to this basic assertion of fact. “I am not angry or hurt by what happened in Amaranthine. However, I no longer carry the same sense of trust in the Guildsmen or the office of the Arl of Amaranthine.”

“So you probably don’t trust me either.”

“Again, Midwife, you have no proof that your connection to the Hero of Ferelden is anything but a name chosen by your mother presumably to protect you from Templars. Master Arainai may be able to offer guidance on this matter, but not I. As your blood is unproven and you were not similarly tutored in manipulation by the First Enchanter, I do not see much reason to be distrustful of you on appropriate topics.”

“ _Appropriate_ topics?” She asked, narrowing her eyes a little.

“I do not carry express confidence in your abilities as a chemist or apothecary.”

She snorted at him, picked up her tea and swallowed some of it, annoyed with his comment.

“If it makes you feel better, neither do I.” She sighed and looked up at him again. “The Keeper of Clan Talanulea trained me in my magic, and in the lore and history of the Dalish, their rituals, and so many other things, but herbs and medicines just… never stuck. A lot of those other things never stuck either, but- I mean, I can forage for what I like in the spring and summer, but actually cooking it up never works well.” Jylan believed her, but remained quiet as Surana reached into one of the pockets of her blue tunic and withdrew a familiar glass bottle. Deathroot extract.

“I came here cautioning you about using lyrium, but really I’m the one who needs to be more careful.” She admitted this with a tight, pained look written across her eyes. “If I use magic _every time_ someone needs me, Masao will stop turning a blind eye and have me run out before long. I know he doesn’t like your family, and he doesn’t like me between my magic and the fact that I _have_ no family, but I need help, Master Ashera. I need _your_ help.”

“Please hear her out, Jeevan.” Ariyah approached them and Jylan moved to permit her to add a bowl of sliced vegetables into the pot of bubbling rice, beans, and spices cooking away for dinner. It would become curry after another hour of bubbling away, very hot for him, but with his portion removed before the rest of the spices were added. She stirred the pot a few times without looking at them, then withdrew briefly back to the kitchen before approaching them again and setting down a small plate of four twisted pastries, each one filled with jam from Mistress Stockard’s parting gift to him. “I know you didn’t get off on the right foot, but Neria is good to our family. She’s my friend and I asked her to speak to you.”

“I have made no protest thus far, sister.” He stated, looking up at her as Ariyah stroked his bangs gentle, tucking the strands too short for his braid behind his ear. “I do not know why both you and Midwife Surana are speaking as if I should be offended.”

Both women paused.

“You were so angry with her,” his sister muttered the strange words to him. “When I was ill…”

“I was not angry,” he clarified. “I am tranquil. However, it was a moment of urgency and danger and I did not consider it prudent to delay in fetching Midwife Surana to your side.”

“You accused me saying I would poison her again!” Neria protested his assertion and Jylan regarded her in his usual fashion.

“An accusation made out of consideration for your inept knowledge of the herbs administered. I did not offer any protest to your methods, Midwife, only caution against a repeated blunder that would have threatened my sister’s life. Ariyah is well and as she has already stated, the two of you regard each other as friends.”

“A friend you disapprove of,” Surana said bitterly.

“I am not of any such opinion.”

Both women became flustered at this and Ariyah fetched a pillow from the bed before joining them on the freshly swept floor.

“You _constantly ignore me_ ,” the midwife accused, and Ariyah frowned at him. “You’ve spoken to me, what, two or three times since I helped Ariyah? But I see you every few days?”

“I am aware of your comings and goings, but we have not had cause to speak,” Jylan explained. This did not satisfy either woman.

“I take care of your _nephew_ ,” Surana stated harshly. “Isn’t that cause?”

“You discuss Jeevan with Ariyah.” Quietly, when Samar and Rian were both out of the house. Jylan’s eldest nephew had not set foot in the house so long as Jylan had been in the alienage. He was not certain the young mage even ran with the alienage children anymore.

“He’s a mage, you _were_ a mage.”

“You originally stated that you required my help with something, midwife,” Jylan did not know how to respond to her comment so changed the topic. “Should we not return to that subject? If it is regarding Jeevan’s magical education I will not prove very useful beyond acting as an academic reference.”

“It’s not, I want to hire you to make poultices and medicines for me,” she told him in a cross voice, and then waved a finger at him harshly. “And don’t change the subject! You _obviously_ care about your family, so why _don’t_ you care about Jeevan? Because he’s a _mage?_ ”

“Because he is taken care of,” Jylan answered, avoiding the well-worn point that he was tranquil and did not have the capacity to care for others. “Your home is in sound repair and your pigeons are healthy and well fed, providing him and you with ample food for the coming lean months. You charge a modest but acceptable fee for your services in the Alienage and are able to keep your clothing and attire in good repair. His mother is not overly distressed from his separation, and you and her maintain a friendly connection as neighbours. You are an adult mage trained by a Dalish Keeper in ways I, as a failed Circle Apprentice, cannot contribute to. I do not concern myself with Jeevan because he is taken care of. Should that change, so will my focus. May we not return to the matter at hand?”

Midwife Surana regarded him with wide eyes and silence, leaning back from him a little although he had not raised his voice and had no emotional reaction to give her prying comments. Ariyah’s response to his explanation was to lean over and hug him, causing Dirthamen to snort and lift his large head up when touched by her body. The hound realized who was around him and dropped his head back onto Jylan’s hip with a lazy huff, warm and content.

When his sister released him and bade him eat one of the sweet pastries set out for them, he noted Midwife Surana’s gaze had moved from all of him to focus on the brand on his forehead. The peach preserves were used sparingly and the syrup was flavourful, providing a pleasant combination in his mouth before he washed it away with a swallow of tea. That he ate her food pleased Ariyah greatly, and gave Midwife Surana time to gather her thoughts and composure.

“If Jeevan needed you, Master Ashera, would you help him?”

“He is a child and my kin, so yes, I would do so.”

“And if I offer you a small sum of coin, will you provide your services so I can work my craft without relying so much on my magic?”

“Yes, however: I will be limited in my capacity to supply you by what reagents you are able to provide. We are in a winter-locked city, not a fertile summer grove.” The midwife helped herself to one of the pastries, which further pleased Ariyah.

“Not everything stuck, but that did: I foraged up everything I could from the hills before the frost hit, we should be alright through winter if you can help me.” Jylan nodded. He would do so.

His day was laid out in a routine which was full, but consistent. A cold breakfast and walk through the snowy morning dark with Dirthamen to the brothel and its table of deathroot and embrium. Back home to a hot lunch with his sister and then either up to his room to work on the amber or out through the cold again for the slippery trek to the midwife’s house.

“Jeevan, this is…”

“I know,” the ten year old boy with his family’s green eyes said in a solemn voice the second time Jylan properly entered the house with the blue door and glowstone lamp. “Sanjay told me.”

His namesake was distraught at the situation itself, not Jylan’s presence specifically. His time within the house coincided with magical instruction between Surana and his nephew. The boy was easily frustrated with the power growing inside of him, often brought to tears that he stubbornly ignored as he reached deeper and pulled harder on magic that was certainly present, but not easily managed. It reminded Jylan of Rowan’s struggles with magical instruction.

“ _Feel_ it moving through your hands, and then-”

“I don’t want to _feel it_ ,” Jeevan hiccupped one afternoon while Jylan chopped dried elfroot for a batch of poultice. “I just want it to _work._ ” His task was elementary but still difficult: to weave a web of light that stretched from finger to finger, the basis of much intermediate spell-work.

Dalish spellcasting worked through song. Surana would clap her hands gently and sing el’vhen words in a chant that echoed the frequency of the veil as it was tugged on by the mage’s hands and mind. It was a more organic version of the Circle’s rigid numerical hierarchy. It was more intuitive, but therefore more difficult for a young and impatient apprentice who wanted his magic to work the way it was supposed to work when he wanted it to work.

If he could not learn to control and command it, then he would be at risk of hauntings and possession by demons who could scare him into dangerous acts of magic. Jylan observed them but did not interfere.

Surana paid Jylan by hours worked, not output created. As he worked diligently and well, he did not stand to earn as much from her but he understood her income was significantly less than that of the brothel. What altered their arrangement was how he took note of the wall-hangings and decorations on the walls of the midwife’s home.

“Are you competent with leatherworking?” He asked her after only a few days in her employ. Satinalia was approaching, the first day of Firstfall was the last holy day of the year.

“It’s a hobby, but yes, why?”

He brought her the worked ram leather, already cut and stitched to the appropriate size, and offered a trade: his labour for the week for her labour with this. If she would tool a chantry sunburst into the hide and notch the leather into a strap at the points he indicated, he would consider it fair compensation.

“Why for the chantry?” He did not answer her question necessarily, stating only that it was important that she complete it soon.

He completed the intricate web of lyrium designs into the amber piece that night, and retrieved the strap from Surana only two days later. It took him another evening to properly glue, stitch, and affix the stone to the strap so it would not come out without the leather being cut away on purpose. Only once the wristband was complete did Jylan answer Samar’s repeated question of what he had been doing night after night in his room.

“Saya has made it abundantly clear that she has no intention of raising her son,” he explained, showing the religious emblem to his family. “His odds are significantly better in the care of the Chantry than here in the alienage, where he will be consistently marked as other and unwanted. The enchantment placed on the amber will keep him warm while he waits on the chantry steps to be discovered, and will allude to either a higher social standing or magical origin to his family, detracting from the idea that he could be elf-blooded. If he is wrapped in the remainder of the fine wool brought from Amaranthine, that will further distance him from the alienage.”

“No.” Samar was severe with him and became angry at the suggestion. “He’s family, he stays, and Saya comes back and _takes care of him_.”

“She will not do so, and you are well aware of this.”

“Don’t you _fucking lecture me,_ Jeevan.”

“It is not a lecture, it is fact.”

“Jeevan’s right,” Rian said, then quickly choked and closed his eyes before Samar could turn on him. “You’re not _here_ enough, Samar. He’s right. I tried for weeks to get her to change her mind and she won’t. At this point she isn’t even staying away because of the baby, she’s gone because she doesn’t want to _come back_.”

“It’s not her _fucking choice_ ,” Samar growled at him, and Rian grew cross despite his shakes.

“You think I like it any more than you do!?” He shouted, always a component of emotional disaster in their household. “Even if you could drag her back by the hair, what kind of talk would fill the alienage then? You think she’d just stay and sit nice and cozy by the fire? What are you going to do, board up all the doors and windows? Chain her to the fireplace so she can’t crawl out? Put up with her screaming and abuse for all of a season before taking your next contract? No, she’s gone: it’s enough, she’s _gone._ ”

“You’ll _watch how you talk to me_ ,” Samar tried to threaten him but Rian just stomped his foot and started shouting.

“She’s gone! She’s _gone! She’s gone!_ She’s gone, Samar, and she’s not coming back! And the only way we’re ever going to get her to so much as remember we’re even _alive_ is if we put this tragedy to rest! Just- Jeevan’s _right_ , we all know he’s right, so let’s just do the _right thing_ and put this all behind us.”

“He’s just a baby!” Samar shouted back, “He’s done nothing wrong!”

“Then why do you want to punish him by keeping him here!?” Rian was not a strong man, he did not engage in conflict easily. He worked from dawn until dusk at a tiring job which left him with little spirit, but through his tears he was defiant on this point. “Who wants to grow up knowing their own mother won’t look at them? Didn’t want to hold them? We can love him as much as we want but we _don’t_ \- Jeevan can’t, Ariyah shouldn’t have to, and I don’t know how to because every time I look at him I hear Eli’s fucking voice and how he was _almost right_.”

“ _Rian!”_ Ariyah shouted, aghast with him. He looked ashamed but just shook his head at her.

“Almost right, not all right, just almost. I’m sorry, Ariyah, I am, but it’s _true_.”

His brothers stopped and looked at their sister, who was the last voice in this matter and would make or break the discussion. They were upstairs in the main bedroom, away from the children and hound, and it was cold.

Ariyah’s arms were folded tightly, bundling her shawl up like she were holding the baby nestled downstairs in his cradle. She was rigid and reserved, looking from Samar to Jylan and back again, dark eyes jumping to Rian and then back once more to Samar. She took a weak breath, then held her hand out to Jylan.

“Give it to me,”

“ _Ariyah_ ,” Samar cautioned, but she showed him her palm and it silenced him.

“Give me the token, Jeevan.”

As Rian had stated a fortnight earlier, Ariyah was the matriarch. She was the second eldest of their siblings and she was the mother of their family’s next generation. She fed and clothed them all, managed their needs and now, when her brothers were arguing, hers was the last voice. What Samar may have held as the eldest was undercut by the nature of his work which took him from the home for too many months of the year to lead them. Rian’s education was not enough to prop up his weak character. Jylan was too young and he was tranquil.

The amber piece was beautiful, even he recognized that fact. It was a rich orange colour and marbled with white lines, and his enchantment gave it a lingering warmth like honey passed over a crackling fire. The strap was dark and had been tooled by the Midwife to form Andraste’s waving starburst, the cut portions bleached softly so they stood out. The fastening was made from a knot of heartwood, with enough notches and length for it to wrap about the infant’s arm, then a youth’s wrist, then a man’s. It was a token of religious nature that the Chantry would not take from a foundling on their doorstep. If Amara had kept her pendant that Jylan wore under his robe, then the infant would keep the amber piece.

Ariyah stroked her thumb across the amber and awakened the enchantment. Jylan did not know if his sister could read or not, but when caressed the stone beat gently like a heart, and it showed the words _‘I am shielded by love_ ’, a misquote from the Chant of Light and Andraste’s declaration _‘I am shielded by flame_ ’. Their sister closed her eyes.

“He goes to the Chantry.”

“ _Ariyah!_ ” Samar gasped but she looked at him sharply and barked him down.

“ _He goes to the Chantry_ ,” She announced it this time, “But _Saya_ will be the one to take and leave him there! If she can walk away from her own child in the snow, only then will I admit that he was a mistake that she has taken responsibility for. If she cannot do it then she will come home. Jeevan will take the message to her tomorrow and I won’t hear another word from anyone about this, not even you, Samar.”

Samar was angry with them and left the house without eating dinner with them. The children were upset by this and Dirthamen was alarmed by the mood of the adults. Jylan personally was not affected, but took note of the infant’s silence from the cradle throughout their meal, and the way neither Rian nor Ariyah had much appetite.

Jylan prepared the last length of fine undyed wool on the table after the dishes were cleared away and the leftovers scraped into a pot for Rian and Dirthamen to eat tomorrow morning. The wool had nothing that would indicate where it was from except its fine, tight weave. The infant would be swaddled in this with the amber keepsake tucked inside to keep him warm. A bottle of milk was left on the table next to the blanket and broach for tomorrow morning: Satinalia.

He would not take the infant to the brothel with him, but would deliver the message to Saya. It would be more appropriate to abandon the infant at night during the festivities when many people would be out and about in the streets feasting and celebrating the festival of the second moon, Satina. It would furthermore be wisest to leave the infant at the merchant district chantry, not the one which served the docks and alienage.

Ariyah fed the infant his goats milk twice: the first time he sicked it up after only a few minutes and cried for a long, painful time before calming. The second time it stayed down and she was able to lay him down on his back, under his warm blankets, next to the fire to sleep.

Jylan took Dirthamen upstairs to bed when Rian left to find Samar. Much later in the night, he was woken up and came back down when the two of them returned distraught, drunk, and reeking of cheap ale. Master Arainai was pleasantly holding them up and smiling on the doorstep, and requested Jylan’s help in taking the water bucket from the kitchen, filling it with slush, and splashing first Rian and then Samar with the frigid blast. There was satisfaction in splashing Rian a second time, despite the angry yelling this incurred, because a pledge to _‘go find him’_ ought not have included becoming excessively intoxicated and carrying on loud and intrusively through the streets beyond the midnight hour.

His brothers agreed, in their half-sober misery, to strip their sopping and befouled clothing before entering the house in only their smallclothes. He retrieved blankets and laid them on the floor by the fire where both of them toppled and fell asleep. Master Arainai’s amusement was tempered by a knowing look and then a quiet word he shared with Jylan before departing.

“You may not feel as they do,” he cautioned, “But please do not judge them too harshly for the strength of their reaction to this… difficult decision… They love deeply, my friend, and that is very hard to live with sometimes.” He agreed to judge his brothers on their actions, not their reasons, and invited Master Arainai to warm himself by the fire before leaving. This offer was graciously declined, and the assassin left in the night.

Jylan returned to bed, calling Dirthamen away from the infant’s cradle as Ariyah settled her children back down- telling Raveena that no, now was not the appropriate time to re-braid uncle Samar’s loose hair. The hound whined at him, but the infant had not been roused by the fighting and Ariyah would become cross if he began to wail again. The hound took time to settle, and Jylan was not entirely certain if the dog in fact fell back to sleep before he did.

His dismissal of Dirthamen’s anxiety was a mistake. The next morning the baby was dead.

Dirthamen woke him early with whining and scratching at the door. Jylan only pulled on his boots without time to perform his morning exercises before following the hound downstairs. Dirth did not want the front door to relieve himself, but went directly to the cradle. Ariyah had not yet woken up to stoke the fire. Samar and Rian were still sleeping off their drink on the floor.

The baby’s face and blanket were crusted in vomit, and he had been kept on his back by the swaddling and sides of the cradle. He was not breathing. He was dead.

Jylan went upstairs and put on a tunic and second pair of trousers to keep warm. He twisted his scarf around his throat and put on his cloak. He came back downstairs and took the infant from the cradle, it was firm and rigid, and he placed it on the table where he had laid out the blanket, the milk, and the keepsake. He wrapped the body and took the two items with him, Dirthamen following him out of the house.

He did not go to the Twisted Tail.

“Master Ashera..?”

“Midwife Surana.”

They stood for several seconds in the pre-dawn dark until she noticed what he was holding. She took a soft gasp and stepped aside to permit him into the home. With the door closed there was only the low glow of the embers by Jeevan’s cot to show the house, and Surana touched Jylan’s arm to lead him away from his sleeping nephew, the milk abandoned on the kitchen counter and the keepsake in his pocket. Dirthamen went to the fire beside young Jeevan and laid down sadly.

They went up the stairs to a room filled with crates and herbs and Dalish ornaments, its glass window cracked and leaking very little light into the space. There was a rope hanging from the rafters with a tough knot at the end, over a three-legged stool.

This was a birthing room.

“Give him to me,” he handed over the infant’s corpse and she unwrapped part of him to see his face, the dim glow from the window just enough for Jylan to watch her fear break into a surge of pain and sadness.

Surana looked down at his nephew and tucked her head down, touching her forehead and face to his and closing her eyes. He was certainly dead, and the frailty of new life was the reason why he did not yet have a name: it was foolish to name a child before the end of their first year. Still, she held him close in a mourning hold for several minutes, and then with a rough breath and watery eyes she withdrew and laid the body down on the crafting table under the window.

She gathered several herbs and jars from the room and then ladled water from a rain-catchment barrel into a bowl. At her indication, Jylan lit two stubs of candle using a box of matches on the table.

There was no magic, but she used her voice to sing. The words were el’vhen and soft, like her calloused fingertips as she unbound the blankets and removed the last of the swaddling, leaving the infant naked as she examined him. No bruises, no signs of struggle, but his limbs were thin and his toes and fingers would not unclench in death. She wet a cloth and washed his face of the vomit that had choked him.

 She anointed her fingers with red oil and rubbed until his hands softened, then his feet, and she crossed his small arms over a sprig of rosemary and a dried oak leaf. She drew a line of oil down his cold back and laid him on one of the blankets again, straightening it first before swaddling the small body, herbs sprinkled through the folds. The method of wrapping was different and covered his head completely, shrouding his face. With this, he was ready for either burial or burning.

Surana lifted and made to hand the body back to him, and Jylan took a step back.

“What are you doing?” She asked him in a rough voice, the gentle hum of her song had vanished.

“I must attend to my duties at the brothel.”

Surana only stared at him, but when he nodded to dismiss himself she spoke.

“Your nephew just died, and you need to go to _work?_ ” He returned to address her concern, his hands folded in front of him. In his haste he had neglected to gather his gloves. Her eyes were staring at him, fogged with sudden exhaustion.

“I am not capable of the tact or reverence this announcement requires for my family. What I am capable of is supporting them financially. I do not know if Rian will be well enough to work or how much coin Samar spent last night, therefore-”

“It’s Satinalia,” she told him in a choked voice, “There’s no work, it’s a Holy Day for every Andrastian in the city. Your nephew is dead and you _need_ to be with your family.”

“My lack of grief or remorse will only offend them.” As it was currently offending her. “Midwife, I seek only to walk the least disturbing path through an already turbulent moment.”

“Sit down.” She told him, nodding sharply to the stool.

“There is nothing to be gained by lecturing me on propriety and emotion, Midwife Surana, I am-”

“ _Tranquil_ , I know, now _sit down.”_ She hissed, clutching the shrouded infant close to her.

He considered simply leaving. She did not have any authority by which to command him as his obligations were to his family and she was an apostate midwife with only potential connections to the Hero of Ferelden. However, she still possessed both the ability and potentially the motivation to use magic against him if he resisted her. That she would kill or maim him was unlikely, that she would cause him to lose his balance and fall down the stairs was very possible and would potentially lead him to great injury.

He sat on the stool and Surana placed the body on the table.

“Take off your hood,” she hissed through clenched teeth, and as he did so he voiced another protest. “Yes, you’re Tranquil; you’re not a mage anymore; you can’t dream; you’re just something the Chantry made to be an obedient servant and do whatever they wanted. I know, I _know all of that_ , but I also know how _awful_ the men in this alienage can be, Ashera. So I’m telling you right now: if you’re going to ignore this moment and abandon your family with their grief so you can go _mix embrium_ for an hour, it’s going to be because of that brand and _not_ because you’re just an _asshole_ who’s hiding behind it!”

He had not removed his hood but held up a hand to stop her from snatching it away. She stopped. He had not expected her to do so, but it provided him with additional time to process what she had said.

“Are you accusing me of a personality fault?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she hissed back.

“That is impossible. It was well understood in the Circles that Tranquil do not have individual-”

“That is the most _outrageous_ thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth, Ashera.” She cut him off but did not touch him, did not force him to physically comply with her demand. “I don’t care what you think or what you’ve been _told_ to think about yourself, not right now. What I care about is the real reason, the real answer for why you _honestly think_ walking away and letting _me_ tell Ariyah what happened last night is somehow better than you keeping family business _in your family_.”

He did not know what answer he was expected to make.

“You are suggesting that if I was not tranquil, I would still remove myself from the situation rather than provide emotional support to my siblings?”

“Prove me wrong,” she challenged him.

“If I comply with your demands, what actions will you take?” He reached up and gripped the side of his hood, indicating that he was not fully opposed to compliance.

“I’m going to look and see what _exactly_ that mark on your forehead did to you.”

“Then you should be aware that contact between the brand and active spellcasting is highly painful.” She was quiet at this announcement, but ultimately did not yield.

“If you consent to stand by your point and sit on that chair while I examine you, I’ll make it as short and fast as I can.” She presented a minor concession to him which did not seem to grasp the full meaning of the word ‘ _painful’_. Whether fast or slow, he would be in immediate pain. “Otherwise, you’re going to get up, take that bundle, and _get out_ of my house.”

“You will not consent to assist in the announcement without my compliance?”

“That’s right.” Then it was not a difficult decision.

If she assisted him then she would be present as an empathetic party capable of mediating the raw emotions of his family. If Jylan was fatigued or indisposed due to the pain of the examination then this could be misconstrued as his own ineffective emotive response to the death. To go alone would inflame and open himself as a target for negative behaviour due to his very real inability to empathize or grieve.

“I consent, but suggest that I move from the stool to the wall.” He removed his hood but did not stand as he made his recommendation.

“Why?”

“Because I may fall or perform a reflexive retreat from the pain, which would interrupt you casting. Rather than endure two spells, it would be more effective to position me in a way that would allow me to resist such reflexes.”

“Are… is this frightening for you?”

“No, but my family is likely awake now and has realized I left with the infant.” He explained with haste. “They may assume I have gone to work to deliver him to his mother, but I do not think it prudent to let them linger in ignorance for longer than they must. Also, as this will be painful I would see it begun sooner so that it may conclude sooner.” And- “Furthermore, I believe it would be wise to summon Dirthamen from downstairs, so I may command the animal not to perceive your actions as a threat to me.”

Midwife Surana was watching him with a stricken look now, her confidence in her assertion that Jylan was simply ‘ _an asshole_ ’ no longer as apparent to him. She went to the corridor and stairs and called quietly for Dirthamen to come, and the hound answered with his heavy paws slapping the cold wood planks. He entered the birth room and made a gruff noise at the traces of blood and other fluids likely saturating the space for his sensitive nose, and proceeded to Jylan.

Jylan moved from the stool to the wall and sat down with his back against it, taking Dirthamen’s head into his lap and commanding the hound to be calm and to heel. Dirth’s ears went up straight at the command and he went very still rather than roll about and flop happily over his legs. He rested his hand around under the dog’s jowls and rubbed his throat, then lifted his other hand up and brushed his bangs up out of the way from the brand.

Midwife Surana rallied her convictions and knelt next to him. She placed a hand on his shoulder to brace herself opposite the dog, and held her other hand up where no magic had yet gathered for her spellcasting. Her timing with this exercise was poor, but he did not offer this criticism at present.

“I’ll make it quick,” she pledged, but it was not immediately relevant to him. He looked at her, not her hand. He considered himself mentally prepared for when her cold fingertips planted themselves around the brand and magic seared and stabbed through his skull. Simply: he was wrong.

Amongst other things, he felt his back straighten and he pressed the back of his head hard to the wall. If he breathed, as the compression of his lungs suggested, it was after an aching pause and only a staggered, sucking breath that became caught fast in his throat. His mouth and eyes were open, he saw blue light; he closed them and the light was still there.

His skin burned away and there was a brutal crack and splinter from his skull fracturing. A jagged wire pierced from the brand through the back of his head and began to run back and forth like a saw. He could not move and he could not breathe and he was not afraid but it hurt. He was in pain. He was in pain and there was a sheering, screeching noise of twisted steel and torn iron snared to something inside of him. Razor-wire was caught and knotted around something that could not move and would not get out of the way. He was being set on fire down his spine and his blood was boiling up his throat and his flesh was-

It stopped. It did not ease or fade, simply stopped. His lungs filled with an even, proper breath of cold air and his gut unclenched, his shoulders relaxed, his neck softened, his hand on Dirthamen’s growling body stroked the dog’s shoulder.

“Heel,” he stated thickly and the growling only became louder, but Dirthamen stopped trying to rise from his belly to his paws. The hound obeyed, lips drawn up and hackles raised, but he obeyed. “Dirthamen, heel.” His mouth, he realized, was filled with the sour and putrid flavour of vomit. Surana was no longer beside him.

“Wash and spit,” her voice came from in front of him and a wooden cup was offered. He took it and tipped a mouthful of the bitter liquid into his mouth that he swished around before spitting into the bowl that followed. A damp rag came immediately after but his hands were full and he did not have time to protest before she began to wipe his mouth and chin for him. He had been sick over himself and set the cup down, but Surana’s grip on his tunic was firm as she brushed and wiped at his chest, then down to his lap.

“It is passed,” he protested and she stopped but did not pass the rag to him. She touched his face, fingers curled behind his ear and directed his gaze to her. Her lips were pressed thin and white, her blue eyes rimmed with red; she was very distressed. “Will you assist my family?” The question winded him but he would recover presently.

“Yes,” she answered with a whisper. “And… and I will _never_ do that to you again. I’m sorry, and I’m ashamed of my actions.”

“Did you discover an answer to your suspicions regarding my behaviour?”

“I…” She grew hesitant and withdrew her hand, her gaze rising to the brand before returning to his eyes. “No _answers_ , necessarily, but… but I saw the cruelty of pinning a live butterfly to a felt board, of nailing a screaming man’s hands to a post. I saw what they did to you and, Master Ashera, I’m sorry for how I’ve judged you until now. Please stay here- I mean, not _right here_ , but here in the house while I speak to Ariyah. Help yourself to anything but if you feel weak or ill then please rest. I’ll be back as soon as I can- _I’m sorry_.”

“It is passed and you will assist the others. It is nearly as I originally intended, thank you.” Dirthamen was keeping stubbornly to his belly with bare teeth and constant growls, but when Surana gathered the dead child in her arms and left him alone, the hound calmed itself down.

Anger lingered in Dirthamen, but confusion was there as well. The hound snuffed and whined gently at his mouth, nosing under his chin and then rubbing his head down his chest and settling in his lap. He stroked the dog’s bristly fur with one hand.

Jylan withdrew the amber keepsake from his pocket and looked at it briefly. It was a fortnight of labour that now served no purpose. He had wasted silver, lyrium, the amber, and time in its creation. It had been a logical act to craft a keepsake that would survive years of worrying touches and contact from a child abandoned to the Holy Chantry. Now it was, he realized, purely an aesthetic bauble of no concrete value to anyone.

“…Master Ashera?” He put the warm keepsake down in his lap and looked to the shadowed door of the birthing room. Surana had not returned, but her apprentice had crept up the stairs in her wake. Dirthamen picked his head up and regarded the boy, but Jylan’s body felt too heavy and drained to move. “Ser, I… I heard a scream?”

“It was possibly my own,” he uttered. “I have no memory of doing so, but was briefly overwhelmed beyond lucid thought.” Jylan made a gruff, shallow cough in his throat to clear some of the burn from vomiting.

Jeevan approached cautiously, stepping into the birthing room with his tangled brown hair hanging in a mop over his green eyes, his ears slender and long through the falling curls. He’d dressed himself in boots and thick layers of undyed wool and brown leather cut with Dalish lines. His steps were quiet and deeply hesitant, but Dirthamen did not growl and ignored the boy after a few more steps, placing his head back down in Jylan’s lap along with his heavy paws. Jylan kept the keepsake in one hand and the other palm against Dirthamen’s back, both were warm.

Jeevan came down into a crouch next to him, and Jylan’s eyes were heavy enough to make each blink last too long.

“Is something wrong with my cousin, ser?”

“Yes,” he answered, moving his eyes so he could see his nephew more clearly. “Your mentor would be the more appropriate person to direct any questions towards.”

“You don’t look well,” Jeevan observed of him.

“It is taking longer than anticipated for me to- regain my strength,” and breaths. He was very fatigued.

Jeevan dropped his voice to a cautious hush.

“…why did she hurt you like that?”

“Her intention was not to harm me,” he answered, “But to gain an understanding of my condition. Her timing was unfortunate but she became stuck on the point. To argue would have wasted time. It is passed and I will recover.” His eyes drifted shut, he as not recovering well and required sleep.

“Should I bring you a blanket, Master Ashera?”

“I…” His clothing was soiled but not excessively. It was cold in this room without a heat-source and he would soon grow uncomfortable in this position against the wall. He did not open his eyes. “Yes…”

The boy left.

He fell asleep.


	36. Arrangements

 The festive nature of Satinalia was derailed by the infant’s expiration. Jylan was absent for much of his family’s immediate reaction and awakened not in Midwife Surana’s house, but rather in the large bed in the main room of their home. Samar and Rian had fetched and carried him home but he had not awoken during the event. His cloak and boots had been removed and he was warmly tucked into bed between Dirthamen and his young niece, Anu.

Samar, dressed but still bleary-eyed from last night, was angry with the midwife for hurting him. He was also angry over the infant’s death. When Jylan protested and stated from the bed that he had consented to Surana’s magic, his brother became angry with _him_ instead.

“Then quit giving your _fucking consent_ to shit that hurts you!” His brother screamed at him, alarming Anu who grabbed Jylan’s wrist and rolled away from Samar, crying at him to hold her and provide shelter from the screaming. Dirthamen showed his teeth from the far side of the bed but Jylan did not respond to the outrage save to command the dog to heel and to regard his niece briefly under his arm. “First that _fucking Warden_ and now the _forest witch!_ What’s it gonna take to knock some sense into you, or do I have to lock you in the damn cellar!?”

“Leave him alone-” Rian tried to intervene but managed only to put himself in harm’s way when Samar turned on him sharply.

“You _shut up_ or _get out!_ ” Samar shouted and Rian lost his nerve with a sudden jump and retreat, knocking his knees into the bed and falling to sit at the foot of it. Jylan pulled the blankets over Anu’s head and the girl buried herself against his side, finding his tummy with her face and hiding there with his arm over her back. When Samar’s attention returned to him, he met his eldest brother’s outrage quietly.

“You _snatched him_ out of his cradle and took off without saying a fucking word!” Samar screamed and it was very loud, his voice made Jylan’s ears ring. “What the fuck was she even supposed to do? Burn him without us knowing? _Bring him back from the dead?”_

Samar paused as if Jylan should offer an explanation, but he was not ignorant of his brother’s temper: to engage would invite more yelling.

Hesitant though both women were, Midwife Surana stepped away from Ariyah at the table and tried to intercede.

“Master Ashera-” She began humbly, but as Jylan had already observed: to engage was to invite more trouble.

“Not _one word_ , stranger!” His brother’s voice thundered and Surana, who was not much like the Archmage whose name she shared, shied back from him under her furs and leathers. “You did your damn duty- now take your silver and _get out!_ ”

“Samar,” Ariyah spoke softly to find reason and was shouted down yet again.

“You wanted him gone!” Their brother seethed, “So kick up your heels, the lot of you! He’s fucking _gone!_ ”

Silence greeted his declaration. Ariyah’s dark eyes sat heavily in her face and Rian brought his hands up over his tears. Surana was still standing between Rian and Samar, but her head was bowed and her shoulders were rigid with anxiety. Jylan did not know where the rest of the children were, save Anu, who was still tucked against his side. When Dirthamen began to growl again and crept over Jylan’s legs with his heavy paws, he set a hand on the animal’s shoulder to stop him. The animal’s noise drew Samar back to him, temper blazing.

“So what the _fuck_ do you have to say!?”

Jylan said nothing. He looked at his brother directly, and awaited-

“You think you know what’s fucking best for people you don’t know- so speak the fuck up!”

He said nothing and let his gaze remain affixed to his brother’s eyes.

“ _Say something!”_

He did not.

Samar, too, became quiet. The transition from outrage to shame was slow, but noticeable. Without targets to shout and scream at his green eyes became watery, and his anger melted into embarrassment, and he covered first his mouth and then all of his face with his hands and retreated from his place bearing down on Jylan’s bedside.

When their eldest brother took a seat at the bare kitchen table, Jylan moved where he was sitting up in the bed and pushed the blankets down off his legs, reaching around under Anu and hoisting the small child up when she protested. She attempted to wrap her arms around his neck but he avoided this by depositing her close next to Dirthamen, distracting the hound briefly and giving the child a more appropriate emotional anchor. He then climbed out of-

The brand pulsed and tension circled his head before it began to ache fiercely. The light and crackle of the fire became overbearing and he closed his eyes, feet resting on the floor and hands braced on the edge of the bed, his shoulders and back bent where he had been about to rise. Hands settled on his wrist and shoulder and he looked to see Rian now sitting next to him, filled with worry and concern that Jylan could not ease because he was not capable of it.

“Are you okay?” His brother asked him, and the care in his voice was enough to draw both Samar and Midwife Surana’s remorseful looks to him. “You were so pale when we found you- and you wouldn’t wake up.”

“It’s my fault,” Surana spoke up and all attention fell on her. “I hurt him, and I had my reasons but they don’t change what happened: that I hurt your brother and I put him through terrible pain.” His family listened to her, but Jylan did not permit the topic to rest so easily.

“I gave you my verbal consent,” he told her, his eyes fluttering briefly as the sound and force of his own soft voice caused the pain around his temples to spike. “And I willingly complied.”

Neria turned to him and argued, but did not raise her voice. She simply shook her head at him and told him no.

“It doesn’t matter that you said yes,” she explained but he did not think it necessary for her to- “What matters is that my actions harmed you. You said it would hurt and maybe you knew what to expect- but _I didn’t_ and _I was the one_ in control.” Very well, he moved on to the next point:

“It is passed and of no further-”

“It is _not_ passed,” she urged, gesturing to his brothers and sister where the three of them were silently listening. “You’re still in pain and your family is still upset, as they should be, because what I did was wrong, Jeevan.”

Rian was still touching him with both hands and moved closer still, pulling an arm around Jylan’s shoulders and scooping up his face so he could lay a firm kiss to his cheek. The emotion Rian meant to communicate had nothing to resonate against, only his intention of expressing care and comfort was relevant.

“It is forgiven,” Jylan said this time, ignoring that he was in no position to harbour caution or impose distance between them as he existed under an informal contract with the midwife. To remove himself from her services would reduce his family’s earnings and that was unnecessary given his nature and indifference towards pain.

“It’s not about forgiveness,” the midwife protested softly, but he chose to ignore this comment.

“I am fatigued, but will recover. I am not familiar with the pain of magical exposure lingering beyond the moment of contact, but do not expect it to persist and consider the event which caused it to be over. The headache I am currently experiencing may in fact be a result of hunger or thirst, not your actions at all.” He had not eaten between now and last night and did not know how long he had been asleep.

“Then eat,” Rian said, rubbing his back gently. “There’s food-”

“Bring him something,” Ariyah echoed, and Samar was the one to stand up and quickly cross to the hearth where a basket covered in fabric had been laid on the warm stones. His brother’s bloodshot eyes were still shameful when he pressed two oven-hot rolls of sweet bread into Jylan’s hands, sprinkled on top with roasted seeds. Samar and Rian both provided unnecessary help in tearing the bread open, and Samar fetched a small dish of butter to spread some along the soft crust.

As he was urged to eat and tea was brewed in a large pot for the sake of everyone’s nerves, Surana retreated to Ariyah’s company and the two women engaged in a long hug. Their conversation was muted beyond what Jylan could hear.

Anu emerged from the blankets and cuddled against him unnecessarily, and he provided her with a portion of the sweet buttered bread which she ate quietly. When Samar showed the girl affection and apologized for his shouting she began to cry, but was soothed when he lifted her into his arms and rocked her gently against his shoulder.

“Stay in bed until you feel better,” Rian told him, offering touches and pushes until Jylan was laid down again and covered in blankets, Dirthamen’s large head and paws resting over his hip and waist where he was on his side. “The rest we’ll handle- and _no more_ mages poking through your head, not a bit, understood?”

“I am not ill,”

“ _Stay in bed_ ,” his brother repeated.

The day did not improve for his family. The death of an unnamed infant was not cause for great public mourning, but it was still an event which ruined the effects of Satinalia. He remained unwell for much of the day and was unable to aid Ariyah in finding the black lengths of fabric in an old box from when their mother had passed, or to help her drape them across the doors and windows of the home. The chantry fee for the burning of an infant was not as much as it would have been for a named child or adult, and Samar told him very simply that Jylan would not be the one to pay for the service.

“You can pay a _portion_ , if you _have to_ ,” his brother reasoned through his persistent melancholy. Jylan ultimately pledged a third of the fee: twenty copper. They would go to the Chantry tomorrow as there would be no funeral services offered on Satinalia.

Master Arainai stopped by the house very briefly, but was warned by the black curtains that something had occurred. He offered what Jylan understood to be very sincere remorse over the matter, but was not otherwise told why Jylan remained in a bed that he did not usually sleep in for the duration of his visit. He was no longer in any pain but his family’s anxiety over his health persisted. It was not necessary, but in light of their current distress over the infant he did not press the matter and remained bedridden.

Rian consented that evening to take Sanjay, Raveena, and Tahir into the central square in the Alienage to admire the lamps and singing under the _Vhenadahl,_ but not before each child had painted their cheeks with a streak of ash from the fire. Sanjay refused to wear his mask, and returned long before his uncle or siblings returned. He was angry, and upset, and largely inconsolable.

The next morning Jylan’s mobility was restored to him along with the family’s morning routine. He departed for the brothel but once there was told there was no work for him. He stated that he had an important item of news for his sister, but their relationship was not believed by the servants. He insisted and was rejected. He offered money and was gruffly told to stay where he was just outside the kitchen in a dark hallway and not leave.

Saya was grumpy and sleepless for her very long and very profitable night, and was not pleased to see him. He was not the appropriate person to deliver this news, but used her non-existent bond with the infant as justification for his role in the matter. She cared, but not enough. He told her, but not the right way.

“I… he was supposed to go to the _Chantry_ …”

“Thus was our intention yesterday, but it does not matter now.”

“I…” He gave her the amber keepsake.

“This was intended to be his as a memento from his family and something the Chantry would not take from him. As it is far too extravagant for any of our family to wear and you are permitted to keep all gifts for yourself, you are the most likely recipient.”

“This is _beautiful_ , where did you even get it from?”

“I crafted and enchanted it using tools purchased from the Dwarven Merchant’s Guild and my own lyrium supply from Amaranthine. The leather was worked by Midwife Surana. The stone was provided by a Dalish Grey Warden also from Amaranthine, although with a stipulation that I would hold the stone to sell if our family fell into need. I cannot compel you to follow through on that condition or require you to forward any earnings to our household, but-”

“Stay right where you are, I’ll be right back.” Saya took the amber and vanished from the kitchens, clutching the deep red house-robe she’d come down wearing.

He waited for perhaps fifteen minutes before she returned with six silver pieces which she placed directly into his hand.

“The amber is a gift,” she said, and he realized from the redness around her eyes and the thickness in her voice that she had been crying. “And I’m keeping it- but if I have to sell it then I know how to get a good price for it. _This-_ this is for Ariyah. I was- I wanted to go last night, for Satinalia, but I didn’t want a fight and Minra would have wrung my neck for leaving on such a busy evening. So I’m giving it to you _now_ , and- every month or every week or whenever it happens to be, I’ll give you more- to give to them- because it’s cold outside and you say that _shitbug_ husband of hers hasn’t come back. Don’t let him come back. Don’t _ever_ let him come back.”

“I will inform them of your contribution.”

Saya burst into loud, sobbing tears. It was unexpected.

“They’ll think I’m just trying to _buy my family back_ ,” she hiccupped miserably, rubbing her eyes and making the traces of last night’s khol streak and stain her hands. “I’m _not_ , I _just-_ I _hate him_ and I _can’t go back_ and I’m _never_ crawling back into that _awful alienage **ever again**_ \- I hate it! And I hate that damned tree! And I hate the trash- and the _stink_ \- and the door that doesn’t close _and…”_ the rest of it was lost in sobbing.

“The door is repaired, with a new lock installed.” He told her and did not approach or offer physical contact. He was not equipped to handle such tasks. “As well as the water pump. The fireplace was in dire need of repair and has been fully rebuilt. You are not required to return to the alienage, Saya, but it will not be as dire as you remember it. It will ease our siblings’ worries to know you remember and care for-”

She walked into him and wrapped him up in a crying hug that nearly unbalanced him, but he held steady. She hugged him very, very tightly and did not let go, sobbing miserably into his shoulder before and long after he arranged his arms around her back. She was very upset and his presence did little to calm her. Dirthamen sat at their feet and looked up with soft whines, but was similarly useless in soothing her.

After many long, unfortunate minutes of her crying, he began to recognize something between the shrill, sawing heave of her cries.

“ _He’s dead… he’s dead… I killed him, he’s dead… Mama forgive me, Mama I’m sorry, Mama…”_

This admission prompted him to make a necessary statement, as well as place one hand on the back of her head, gently in her hair, as she continued weeping.

“It was not you who deferred the final decision by an additional fortnight to complete a token of perceived emotional comfort and connection.” This was a simple statement of truth. “It is not your fault, Saya, it is mine.”

Rather than respond to him with anger or abuse for engaging in her grief in a conflicting manner, his younger sister tightened her hold on him by a considerable degree, and then let her weight drop to the floor. This was unexpected and dragged him down with her, where she settled as far into his lap as she could manage, still clinging around his shoulders and crying with softer, more controlled breaths against his damp robe.

Dirthamen settled his head in Saya’s own lap, ears down and paws flat. When he took note of her stroking the dog’s head, he mimicked the action across her own hair. It was snarled and tangled from last night, but soft and warm in the dingy hall. The gesture soothed her further, so he continued.

When his sister was calm enough to sit up and dry her tears, she thanked him and kissed him on both cheeks. She made sure he had the silver with him but instead of walking him out of the building, she asked him once more to remain where he was and let her come back.

He waited near to half an hour this time, and when Saya returned her did not know it was her until she spoke.

She was wearing a plain cotton skirt very much like Ariyah’s, indeed, perhaps even made by her. Her leather vest was modest and the wool shirt under it was undyed, the coat over top had ripped seams and was very thin in many places. Her gloves had no fingertips, like Rian’s, and her scarf was brown wool with moth holes eaten through it. Her hair was in a simple braid. She wore no jewelry save the amber piece, but tugged her sleeve’s ratty cuff down over it.

She took his hand and walked with him and Dirth back to the alienage, back to their family’s house. There was much, much more crying, and considerably more hugging and kissing. Samar’s anger did not rekindle itself. The children were very pleased to see her and her return prompted yet more crying, and more hugging, and more kissing.

Saya refused the money from Jylan, Rian, and Samar for the Chantry’s services, and carried her son to the holy place where a lay sister spoke with them briefly. The pyre burned away to nothing in only an hour.

The ordeal was over.

Ariyah and Saya lingered in the Chantry until finally they bade the men take the children back to the alienage and leave their sisters alone to speak in Andraste’s shadow. Ideally they would make up with one another. Ideally three grown men would be capable of cooking dinner without their elder sister hovering and making sure they did not waste her good spices.

The beans and rice and chunks of white fish did not smell as good as when Ariyah prepared them, but Rian was convinced it would satisfy them for dinner. Dirthamen comforted the children by nuzzling and rubbing against each child until they either smiled or consented to pet him, and Jylan left for the Midwife’s home with the pot still boiling.

“Master Ashera.”

“Midwife Surana.”

“Good evening.”

“What?”

Midwife Surana’s behaviour around Jylan had now changed. His response was rudeness, which was unnecessary and likely inflammatory.

“I apologize,” he stated on the heels of his own comment. “I misunderstood your statement as a dismissal of my services.”

“It… _is_ late for you to start working,” she stated slowly around a wince. There only remained another hour of the day before sunset. “But no, you can still come in. _Please_ come in.” The amendment was deliberate. Although he did not know the purpose behind it, he consented to enter the home.

He had left a cauldron of witch-hazel to cure and that was his primary goal for the-

“Have you eaten today?” Witch-hazel was not edible and the statement from the Midwife caused the unnecessary thought. He looked at her but had no immediate answer.

“Yes,” he said after a delay. “This morning.”

“It’s nearly dusk,” Yes, he had already noted the low sun. “That’s a long time without food.”

“My brothers have prepared the evening meal, I will eat when I return home.”

“Oh, okay.” She stood there in her long Dalish tunic and folded leather boots, her toes and heels bare to the cold floorboards. Her hands were shoved into the pockets sewn into the thighs of her tunic, the soft blue wool pulled down by this gesture. He did not know where Jeevan was, and returned his attention to the matter at- “What about to drink?”

“Witch-hazel is not swallowed,” he said it this time and did not know why as it was not a sensible response to her question. “I am well, midwife.”

He was provided with enough time to set up the six cloudy glass bottles on the counter. He placed a tin funnel into the mouth of the first one and spread a weave of linen across the top to filter the brew. He filled a small pitcher from the standing cauldron before he was interrupted again.

“You look tired.” He nearly tipped the pitcher into the funnel and stopped himself, looking up at her once more where Surana still had not moved from her spot. “Have you been sleeping well? If the headaches are still bothering you then there’s elfroot enough to help with that. Or some ginger from the tea brew you prepared last week.”

He stood there and he waited for her to stop speaking. She stopped and watched him. It appeared that she was holding her breath.

“I am not well equipped for small-talk, Midwife,” he told her. “If there is a subject you intend to broach with me then you will be better served by opening the topic directly rather than seeking to approach it from an adjacent topic.”

“How do I _talk_ to you?” She gasped, but it seemed she had taken his advice. The tension holding her spine straight released and she thumped her feet on the floor, loosening up. This was what she wanted to say.

“Preferably, in the Dwarven Trade Tongue,” he answered. “Although I am capable of written communication in Orlesian. I was once considered proficient in Ander but have not had cause to study or practice the language in nearly ten years.” She stared at him, and then scowled.

“You _are_ an asshole,” she accused in a soft, bitter voice. “No one believes me, but you _are_.”

“Warden Guerrin would believe you, but he is currently abroad.” Surana’s shoulders hiked and her eyes widened briefly. A smile tried to turn her mouth.

“You just made a joke.”

“I was being truthful on both counts, that you find humour in them is an aside.”

“Put that stuff away,” she said, waving her hands at the bottles and the witch-hazel and everything else. “It’s too late in the day, and you’re too tired, and I don’t need it right away. _Put it away_ , I want to talk to you.”

“We are presently conversing.”

“Stop being an ass and put it away, I said.” He poured the pitcher back into the cauldron and returned the funnel and fabric to their places. She assisted by tucking the bottles back into the cupboard, and then indicated one of the three chairs at her table near the fire. Before joining him, she filled a black kettle with water and hung it over her burning hearth.

“ _How_ ,” she said, sitting down opposite him and making smooth, bold gestures with her hands as she spoke. “-do I _talk_ to you? You- your mind works _differently_ and when I listen to you talk to people I always hear you _constantly repeating yourself_ and getting _so hung up_ on little words that you don’t think fit! So- _how?_ ” She asked again, looking at him directly and using her hands to frame his face from across the table. “How do I _talk_ to you? How do I-? What do I have to _stop_ _saying_ or _start doing_ so that when I ask you something you actually give me a straight answer instead of correcting me or getting turned around?”

He considered this request and the circumstances outlined. It was true that certain phrases were ones he repeated excessively throughout each day both in Gwaren and previously in Vigil’s Keep. However, they had not been present during his time in the Formari Guildsmen or to such an extent in the Circle of Magi.

“If you desire a straight answer then it is advisable to ask a direct question, as you just did.”

“What about the line where being direct becomes just being rude?”

“As I am tranquil that line in propriety is often considered to be in an altogether different place compared to a typical individual. If you are rude to me, then with your permission I will bring it to your attention.”

“Please do.”

“Does this conclude our discussion?”

“ _No.”_ She said sternly, therefore he did not get up. “We still need to have a talk about opinions, specifically _your_ opinions.”

“Tranquil do not carry-”

“- _nugshit-”_

 _“-_ do not carry worthwhile opinions. They are of no value to ourselves or to others.”

“Nugshit!”

“You are being rude.”

“And you’re being an asshole!” She trumpeted, folding her arms and leaning back in her chair with a sense of satisfaction. “A self-depreciating one, sure, but an asshole just the same.”

He sat there for several moments to see if she had anything additional to say. Rather than continue to appear smug and self-assured, the midwife’s satisfied grin slipped and she abruptly sat up again with a rough grumble in her throat.

“What… I was _going_ to say,” she told him in a more reserved manner, “Is that we’ve all heard you say something like that before- that you don’t have or can’t have opinions, or that when you do they’re not important- but you _do_ and they _are_.”

“They are not,” he corrected her.

“They _are_ ,” she pressed back. Very well, he would elaborate and explain himself:

“The merit awarded to an opinion or perspective is based on the perceived value of the individual who holds and shares it. As Tranquil are not considered autonomous persons, our value is significantly reduced beyond what our monetary or labour-intensive contributions may provide to others. Therefore: any opinions I may or may not hold are irrelevant to any non-Tranquil individual.”

Surana was quiet, which was unexpected given her earlier belligerence. It was good that she clearly had been listening to him and was taking time to process his words. It was not good that she smiled before answering him.

“You said _perceived_ value.”

“As there exists no finite method of calculating individual worth, ultimately all evaluations reach a point of individual perception and variance. However-”

“-Nope.” She interrupted him with a hand and when he proceeded to- “I said no! You said it, and you just repeated it, and that means you can’t back out of it.” She was grinning and pointed at him using both hands, much like a child would. “Your opinion is worth _as much_ to the people who hear it as _you do_ to them and you can’t change that.”

“Be that as it may there is no reason to assume my standing exists in any noteworthy capacity.”

“I know what that mark does to you, Master Ashera, but you need to quit hiding behind it. Carrying all his worries and anxiety, even your brother Rian expects and demands more respect than you do.”

“That is because Rian is affected positively or negatively by how he is perceived and treated by others. I am not similarly vulnerable.”

“Because you don’t see yourself as a person?” She posed this question with a modest frown.

“Because I am, as a matter of fact, not one.”

“You have a family and we’ve all heard you include yourself in it, or call it yours.” He was aware of these statements he had made, yes, and he was furthermore guilty of referring to the household as his ‘ _home’_. “So how can you have brothers but not be a person?”

“The Rite of Tranquility affected my mind, spirit, and legal standing, not my blood and flesh itself beyond the scar of the brand- and the physical treatment I was subjected to afterwards, but that is not the present matter. Tranquil or not, I was still born from the same mother as Samar, Ariyah, Rian, Saya, and Damen.” Surana frowned again.

“Damen? But what about Jenna?” Oh. He clarified the matter:

“Damen was mine and Saya’s younger brother I am told perished when his ship was captured by raiders seven years ago. Jenna remained an unnamed infant at the time I was removed from the alienage by the Templars and I have not seen or spoken to her since my return.”

“You forgot her,” Surana accused, but her tone was unnecessary.

“Yes, I forgot.”

“But see _that_ -” She opened her hands across the table to him. “That’s what _people_ do, not golems, not sylvans, or spirits. _People_ forget things.”

“People also yawn and slip on ice, which are traits shared by the Tranquil,” he stated, but was swift to head off her enthusiasm. “But it does not change anything.”

“This is all something the Chantry told you, isn’t it?” She accused. “It’s what they told all the Tranquil when you were living in their Circle?”

“That is correct,” He answered, “But as such assertions are entirely supported by both Chantry doctrine and the common laws of Southern Thedas, Ferelden included, it is as I said a matter of fact.” Surana became reserved and uncomfortable now, but did not bring the topic to a close and simply sat there huddled in her chair as she prompted him further.

“So if you’re not a person, then what are you?”

“I am property,” he told her simply, and the Dalish woman was overcome with shock by this assertion. “Without the Circles I was considered property of the Formari Guildsmen, but since I have broken ties with their collective I have not given the topic considerable thought. It is possible that I now exist in the same legal bracket as my sister’s children, with deference to one or more of my siblings. I would not rule out the possibility of my being akin to a living asset such as a horse, except that my ownership of Dirthamen contradicts such an assertion. A mabari is worth more than an horse and I maintain more autonomy than the dog. Although I remain uncertain of the details, ownership of Dirthamen at least guarantees me a legal standing whereby killing me would be considered a punishable crime.”

“I… I need a minute,” Surana stated in a raw voice, leaning onto the table with both elbows and rubbing her eyes with her fingertips. “And maybe a drink. Do you drink?”

“I am experiencing a moderate sense of thirst.”

“Vodka, Ashera. I’m going to open vodka: if I pour any for you will you drink it?” He considered the offer even as she stood and walked to find the bottle, all the while muttering _‘worth more than a dog’_ to herself.

“Yes,” he answered, looking back over his shoulder to observe as she found a small glass bottle with a sealed wax top and retrieved two tin cups to drink from. Her kettle was boiling, but she only unhooked the black iron and set it on the stones without brewing any tea from it. The cups, the alcohol, and a ceramic water jug were placed on the table in front of him and Surana peeled the wires around the vodka’s neck off, prying open the wax. She sniffed it, and found it acceptable.

The clear liquid was poured liberally into both cups and then topped with water. Rather than sit across from him at the square table, this time Surana simply sat down in the chair adjacent to him. She swallowed easily from her cup but then pulled a face at the flavour: eyes closed and lips twisting, with a pronounced recoil at the neck. When Jylan tasted his own he understood. The swelling dryness of the alcohol was cutting across his pallet, and made the refreshment offered by the cold water very brisk.

While it was not immediately pleasant, the after effects were mild and he took another modest swallow. It would satisfy.

“Okay,” Surana said after her own second taste. Her voice was rough and her eyes watery, but she did not seem to regret the choice of drink. “The chantry’s… laws, aside. I still want to know how to talk to you.”

“Again, we are presently conversing.”

“Engage?” She asked, closing one eye as Jylan took another drink. “Is that the word I want? People disagree and they nitpick, sure, but it has to get annoying always correcting people.”

“I do not experience annoyance, I am-”

“This is _exactly_ what I’m trying to get around.” She interrupted him with a sour frown but did not cling to her annoyance beyond that point. She swirled the contents of her cup and drank again before continuing to probe at her chosen topic. “If it’s not annoying, isn’t it- tedious? Tiring?”

“There is a certain level of tedium involved in most conversations I partake of, yes.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if you didn’t _have_ to spend half your time correcting other people?”

“If I found the circumstances unbearable then I would reconsider making amends to the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine. Between Tranquil, such slips are rare and often self-corrected.” He ended this statement with a drink as she considered his words.

“So if I or anyone else wants to just have a calm, easygoing conversation with you, we have to talk like you do?”

“The alternative usually presented is to simply ignore my corrections and carry on as if I have not spoken at all, this is how my family and the majority of those whom I share a positive relationship with have chosen to behave.”

“Sounds rude,” Surana said around the lip of her cup.

“I do not consider it a violation of the social etiquette displayed towards Tranquil, unlike repeated exclamations that my statements are nugshit.”

“I was only making a point, but you’re right.” A giggle chased her words. “It was rude of me, I’m sorry.” She reached for the glass bottle and poured a serving more of vodka into her cup as Jylan finished the last of his. When she indicated him with the base of the bottle, he presented the cup and was provided with a refill, topped with water again as before. They drank.

“So, no one’s ever just come down to your level?” She asked with another rough breath and then a smack of her lips. The harsh cold of the drink had mellowed and become pleasant. “Even your friends?”

“It is a considerable depth to reach for most people,” he answered. “Tranquil do not use the Dwarven Trade tongue with the same ease as normal individuals. It is cumbersome and often insufficient to express what needs to be said as simply as is necessary. The Grey Wardens practice a silent language of hand-signs which I observed during my time in Amaranthine, but I could not justify breaching the order’s reknowned secrecy in order to establish if this language as well remained as heavily reliant on emotive and figurative speech.” Connor may have been willing to share the information, but Jylan had simply never asked.

“You said you can read and write Orlesian, is that any better?”

“Orlesian is significantly more figurative than Trade. Tranquil from the White Spire often refused their mother tongue after the Rite due to this nature.”

“What about _El’vhen_ , or do you not…?” She trailed off and took a drink, permitting him to swallow his own mouthful taken during her question.

“What few words I know of _El’vhen_ were provided during my time among the Grey Wardens, several of whom were Dalish and two considered themselves close to me. Of what little I have heard of the language as it is known to the Dalish, I would estimate that the emphasis on pronunciation and tone of voice may impede a Tranquil’s efforts to communicate. Ultimately however I do not know enough to rule definitively on the matter.”

“And- did you say you spoke _Ander?_ ”

“As an apprentice I considered the language comical to the ear, and expressive on the tongue. Once I had obtained proper literacy I considered Ander an enjoyable reprieve from my mandated studies.” She smiled at him, her cheeks pink.

“You picked it because you thought it sounded funny?”

“There were very few acceptable means of entertainment in the Circle of Magi. It was important to take enjoyment when and however it was available.”

“Do you still find it funny? Do tranquil laugh?”

“No.”

This answer disappointed her. The bottle of vodka was small and in comparison her servings were large. With another refill they had consumed half the bottle. Her condition to continue serving him was that he remove his hood, which he did so as he had begun to feel warm from the alcohol.

“Does it-? Wait, no,” She closed her eyes and held a finger up to him, reorganizing her thoughts before looking at him again. “Do you- _are you_ compelled to correct me when I talk about how _I_ feel?”

“Your emotional responses are valid and natural in their occurrence, so no.”

“ _Why_ do you feel compelled to correct me when I ask you about _your-_ no, when- I use _emotive_ language to talk about you?”

“I do not feel compelled, as compulsion is an emotional response to-”

“ _Bah!_ ” She flapped her hands over the table, and took another drink. She was very pink, but also frustrated. “ _Why_ do _you_ correct me when _I say_ anything about _feelings_ you have?”

“Because I do not have feelings, and your statements are rendered incomprehensible or insane by the supposition that I do.”

“Well you _should_.”

“I should, but I do not.” She stared at him. He swallowed from his cup. The taste was pleasant despite the numbness of his tongue. When Surana spoke again, her voice was soft.

“Do you know what I saw when I looked into that scar on your face?”

“I do not, no.”

“I saw… I want to call it a wound but really it was more like… a knot?” She leaned her elbows on her table and brought her hands up, pinching her thumb and finger together like she was threading a needle. “It was smaller than a star on a hazy night, like this impossibly tiny little shard of something wrong. Like a linchpin, or a single needle snaring up a tapestry, or a loose thread being ripped out of the weave. It was _so small_ , but it ruined _everything_ around it. Where that pinprick touched the veil it made its essence constrict and sheer, winding it around in this senseless chaos that _looked_ painful- and it probably really is- or was. The whole knot together, pin and run and tear, couldn’t have been bigger than two strands of hair wound up in one. I think the pain would have killed you if I’d done more than just look at it, I have _no idea_ how any mage could try and fix it.”

“The Rite of Tranquility is not meant to be fixed,” he told her after another swallow of vodka. “That it is impossible to do so is a logical extension of its purpose. If the Rite could be undone by the persistent efforts of a mage, then further incidences of its reversal would be known.” His statement stopped her from drinking.

“ _Further_ incidences?”

“I cannot confirm the claim, but during the Mage-Templar war there were repeated claims that a Tranquil of the White Spire had his condition reversed. Formari Cyril of the Amaranthine Guildsmen stated that the Tranquil, Pharamond, was killed in his chamber after being condemned by Divine Justinia to undergo the Rite a second time.”

Surana shrieked and then stared at him, aghast.

“No- _no!_ They couldn’t do it _again?_ How could-? I don’t know if you’re _happy_ like this or not- or if you would even _want_ the Rite reversed but I _saw_ what the Rite did to your connection the Fade and- _no!”_ She leaned on the table with her elbows, hands framing her face and fingers lost in her blonde hair. “Cutting off a man’s legs, sewing them back on, and then taking an axe to them _all over again?_ The Divine said so? The woman who blew up on the mountainside? _That woman?_ ”

“Divine Justinia the Fifth, yes.” Surana looked up at him hatefully.

“She _deserved it!_ ”

“I cannot ultimately confirm anything about Pharamond or the circumstances surrounding his death.” As Jylan spoke, Surana snatched up her cup and downed the rest of it. “I was not privy to any matters discussed prior to the Annulment of the Fereldan Circle of Magi.”

“It’s cruel and it’s wrong and I _don’t care_.” She hissed, near to tears as Jylan swallowed another mouthful, and then as there was very little left in the cup he finished it. “Let Fen’Harel chew on _her_ spirit for a few years and see how it feels. You’ve been- ten years, you said? Since the Rite?”

“Nine as of Harvestmere.” Last month.

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Does it _still_ hurt? The knot- the _screaming_ , it-?”

“I remember considerable pain and discomfort in the days following the Rite, although the length of my adjustment is not something I can accurately state. If you are asking if it hurts presently, then no, it is simply quiet.”

“What-? Your thoughts?”

“Everything,” he answered, delayed by the fact that she had refilled his cup again. He could not recall the act of serving and he was uncertain if she had poured the water. The bottle was almost empty. “Everything is quiet.”

She had not poured water. It did not taste as good. He was warm and he was tired. They had burned his nephew that afternoon and now it was late in the evening, but there was no resonance between that information and Jylan himself. He would go home and go to sleep and then he would wake up and ready the morning water for Ariyah. He would go to the brothel and mix embrium- unless there was no need for him, in which case he did not know what he would do but it would come later.

“What did your magic feel like?” Neria asked him. It was a very personal question as well as inappropriate, but he heard himself answer it anyways.

“Light.” He remembered it. He did not miss it. He should have. “Colourless but multicoloured, every kind of light that I could name. Candlelight and firelight, star and sunlight, the light of glowstones and veilfire and chantry flames and the refraction of light through glass. The light would sing and it was warm and when I was afraid of it I felt cold, but when I mastered and commanded and guided it I was warm. It was very beautiful, like the dawn rising inside of me with every spell I wove, or the cool guidance of the moon whenever I was at rest.”

“It sounds like you were a _wonderful_ mage…”

“I was skilled and my mentor was proud. I suffered with the academics until she taught me to read and write, as I had arrived in the Circle illiterate after the Blight. I spoke to spirits and I was not afraid of my dreams. I was eager to be Harrowed. I wanted to join the Grey Wardens, or to travel back to the alienages as a teacher to help bring other young elven mages into the Circle with more letters than I had started with. My mentor had hoped that I would consider spirit healing as a medium. I had not decided. Ultimately, I did not have to.”

Neria was resting with her cheek on one curled hand, watching him with her soft blue eyes and the dimming light of the low fire. The sun was gone and it was growing very dark in the home, but her hair picked up the light easily and made it glow softly.

“Why did they take all of that from you?” Another question inappropriately posed. The vodka did not have any taste left as his numb throat swallowed it. Words came out on his drunken breath.

“-because I was so caught up in my sudden successes that I forgot the dangers of achievement. I did not question when the girl I had desired for many years abruptly chose and flattered me. I ignored everything I had ever been told about the Hero of Ferelden and the First Enchanter. I loved her. I wanted her. She wanted me out of the way. Her trap was poorly executed and the First Enchanter punished her by taking my sentence to its logical extreme. That she apologized to me after the fact is irrelevant: I am tranquil, and she is dead.”

“Do you mind if I drink to that last part?” Neria asked him, lifting her tin cup when he offered no answer. He did not have any worthwhile opinion of Amara’s actions at this point, but raised his cup as well until the thin metal tapped hers.

They drank and the vodka was gone.

“Where is Jeevan?” It was dark and his nephew had not returned to the house yet.

“Maybe with Saya?” She did not sound concerned, he trusted her judgement as Jeevan’s guardian. “He sees her a lot. She’s nice to him. Oh, but- before I forget…” Neria put her hands on the table and stood slowly, Jylan watched her and noted that his vision had some difficulty tracking her motion. “We don’t know each other, you and I. We’re not friends, and you’re not sad, but I’m sad- with what you told me. Your voice is softer when you’re drunk and you talk a lot more. And I’m drunk, so I’d like to give you a hug. Can I do that?”

“Probably.”

“You have to stand or I’ll fall on you.” Her request was not unjustified, but that did not make it a simple task to perform. The table did not seem stable, and his chair resisted movement across the wooden floor. His balance was not good.

Her embrace was clumsy but warm under his arms, squeezing the heat from his black robe and permitting him to return it without much sense of how to hold or squeeze back. She did not complain and her breaths were warm across his throat.

“In your defense, you do not sound drunk,” he told her.

“Oh, I’m _drunk_ ,” she insisted, squeezing him a little tighter and then letting her arms drop. He mimicked her. The hug had not lingered but the floor was bubbled and uneven under him when he tried to approach the door. “You’re drunk too. Do Tranquil not drink?”

“I take beer or wine with food, but I have not eaten today.” And he had consumed half a bottle of vodka.

“Oh- _shit_ , I should’ve fed you. I should cook.”

“I would discourage that.”

“What- why?” She asked him with her clumsy foot-falls echoing behind him. “Are you saying my food sucks?”

“Yes, but also that if you were at risk of falling over my chair, then you would be at risk of cutting or burning yourself over the fire.” He stopped at the door and sought to open it, but was jostled when her head touched his back in an overly familiar manner.

“Asshole,” she grumbled.

“No one will believe you,” he answered and opened the door.

It was very cold outside and this was immediately disagreeable. It was snowing, also disagreeable. Beautiful but silent clumps of white were falling from the black sky. There was no moon and much ice and he was intoxicated. He was going to fall at least once before reaching home.

His first slip was right off her front step, and he landed hard on his rump in a seated position. Neria laughed and helped him up until she also slipped, at which point she continued laughing, and resolved to crawl back into her home on hands and knees. Jylan could not justifiably crawl the fifty yards or so through the alleyway to his family’s home, and reclaimed his feet with caution and little chance of success.

His boots were good and his blood was warmed by the liquor. His ass hurt. His neck also hurt. The snow was only a few inches deep. He fell again on a puddle that had frozen solid and sat there in the powdered white for a few quiet moments, then resolved to stand again.

“Shit…”

The door to their home posed a problem in the dark, but he heard Dirthamen bark and familiar voices speak up behind the mourning black curtain. Rian opened the door and stood on the threshold.

“Maker, it’s about time you got home!” Dirthamen whined and nosed around Rian’s hip, panting in delight at Jylan’s return. He did not recall entering the house requiring a step down of about a foot and a half. This would be problematic. “Wait a second… Hang on!”

“Rian?” Samar’s voice called behind him. “Is it Jeevan?”

Rian grinned and shut the door between Jylan and Dirthamen. The hound shrieked and yipped in alarm and his siblings’ voices were curious and speaking together. He heard Rian laughing. He did not know why he was still outside.

The door opened and with it came two things; Rian’s continued laughter, and a thick slosh of frigid, airborne water. The water hit like a blow to the chest and splashed up inside his hood, drenching his face and hair and throwing him backwards for a _third_ time. He lost his breath and hit the icy, snowy ground hard. He did not believe he said anything, but both heard and felt his breaths shaking when he gasped and began to shake from the cold shock.

“He doesn’t _drink_ ,” Samar was in the door and Rian was inside the house again with the water bucket over his head, laughing and chanting with the children latching onto his excitement presumably without any understanding of the context. Samar stepped outside with a hand Jylan accepted to help him up, and continued speaking. “You can’t get drunk if you don’t drink, Rian!”

“I am drunk,” Jylan clarified, and Samar stopped pounding on his shoulders and arms to remove the snow from him. His eldest brother looked at him in the filtered firelight from the house, squinted a little, and took a hard sniff near his face.

“Well Andraste’s Ashes,” Samar hummed, and without explanation he crouched to the ground, gathered a handful of fresh snow, and then crammed it all right into Jylan’s face.

This time Jylan vocalized sudden, involuntary protest at his treatment. Samar laughed, gave him a moment to brush the snow off his nose and eyes and mouth, and then brought him inside to warm up.

“Payback for last night!” Rian trumpeted, having traded the bucket for Tahir, who was sitting over his shoulders and laughing with his arms around Rian’s head as Jylan’s brother took large, swinging steps around the room. “Payback! Payback!”

“This is why no one can find you a wife, Rian.” Ariyah complained from the kitchen table, a new shirt for one of the children in her hands where she was stitching the hems in place. “I thought you went to Neria’s? Why are _you_ of all people wasting coin on drink?”

“Neria is also drunk, sister.” His cold mouth felt thick and clumsy. “It was not a large quality- quantity, but we both possess the same tolerances- low tolerance of- we-”

“You’re both cheap drunks,” Samar helped him along.

“Yes.” The door was now closed and Jylan was making attempts to remove his wet robe with Dirthamen snuffing and pawing at him for eager attention. Between the hound’s persistent attitude and his brothers’ jeering, Jylan was still able to eat a modest helping of dinner without noticing the excessive spice profile, consumed a suitable amount of fresh water, and was made to sleep in his smallclothes on the floor in the main room.

The next morning his hangover was considerable, and the slamming headache interfered with basic tasks of dressing and grooming. Sanjay had hidden one of his boots and Jylan tasked Dirth with sniffing it out for him when they heard an abrupt knock at the front door. Wearing one boot, loose trousers, his hair free and tangled, and an untucked shirt with its sleeves and neck all unlaced, he opened the door.

“Compounder Second Class Jylan Ansera of the Formari Guildsmen,” an Orlesian voice spoke through the agonizing dawn glow. “You are summoned before the Guildmaster and will accompany-”

He closed the fucking door.


	37. Formari Cyril

 

“Um-”

“Did you just… slam the door in someone’s face?”

Jylan walked away from the door to his family’s home, retrieved the leather boot sitting in Dirthamen’s slack jaws, sat on the floor and pulled it onto his foot.

“Yes.”

Behind him, the brisk knock at the door repeated itself. Rian and Ariyah shared a moment of silence and presumably a concerned look. Jylan laced up the cuff of his shirt and ignored Dirthamen’s attempts to crawl into his lap. The knock repeated itself. He consented to Dirthamen’s need for attention, permitting the animal to believe it was being embraced as Jylan laced his other sleeve with the dog sitting in the circle of his arms. His head ached.

Rian opened the door.

“Compounder-” the voice outside repeated, then stopped. It was female and Orlesian. “I am here to speak with Compounder Second Class Jylan Ansera of the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine.”

“Uuh, I…” Rian hummed at the threshold, “I don’t… know who that is? I’ve heard of the Guildsmen, but not that name before.”

“That is inconsistent with what information I have already acquired,” the familiar voice stated. “Compounder Ansera will present himself promptly as I saw him standing where you are now only moments ago.”

“That was my brother _Jeevan_ ,” Rian said slowly, “and I don’t think he wants to talk to you? Whoever you are?”

Jylan removed Dirthamen from his lap and stood up.

“Despite the etiquette typically executed at first meetings introductions are not necessary between us, as I am here solely to collect the Compounder and return him to Amaranthine.”

Jylan put his hand on the door, out of sight behind it, and slowly but deliberately closed it. Rian was wearing a tight and disapproving face, and stepped out of the door’s way as it shut. It was Jylan’s brother who set the iron latch to lock the person out.

“Jylan?” Rian asked, turning the sour look to him. Jylan nodded.

“My Chantry name, changed with the intention of complicating or outright preventing the possibility of any return to the Alienage of my origin.”

“Compounder _Second Class?_ ”

“My former rank within the Formari Guildsmen.”

“I thought you quit your guild?”

“I did.”

“I don’t think they got the memo. Should we let her inside?”

“No.” Rian did not argue with him, but there was another knock at the door.

“Do you know who she is?” His brother asked after Jylan had gone upstairs and brought back his comb to tend to his hair.

“I could not see her when I opened the door.”

“Blonde, pale blonde, probably elven? She had the mark.” He touched his forehead and Jylan considered the possibilities.

As he pondered, Raveena was awake and lit up at the sight of the white wood comb. She pried it from Jylan’s loose grasp and then dragged down on his shirt until he consented to sit on the floor again. Dirthamen sprawled over his lap once more and Raveena began to part and brush Jylan’s hair. When he was thus settled, he answered Rian.

“It is likely Formari First Class Cyril Mercier, formerly of the White Spire in Val Royeaux.”

“And the two men with armour and swords who were behind her?”

The knocking was much louder this time and did not sound like the hand of a tranquil elven woman. The noise startled Raveena and Ariyah stopped her bread-making to stare at the door.

“Open up!” A male voice shouted this time, and the knocking repeated just as heavily. The sound of it hurt Jylan’s head.

Sanjay crept down the stairs with Samar following with a yawn, his loose hair hanging down his back as he rubbed one eye. Jylan stood again and brushed a hand over Raveena’s hair before walking to the kitchen and fetching the water bucket from the floor behind Ariyah. He filled it.

“What’s going on?” Samar asked.

“What are you doing?” His sister echoed, and Jylan took the bucket upstairs, followed by Sanjay who demanded in a snappier voice to know where he was going with the water.

Jylan took it to the second floor, into Rian’s room, and opened Rian’s window with Sanjay’s help to pry the rusted latch open. He and his nephew both looked out the window. At the front door below them stood a demure figure in a blue robe with white sleeves. Banging on the front door was a man in polished silver armour, possibly silverite or high quality steel. Behind them was another soldier in similar attire.

He considered sending Sanjay back downstairs so as to explicitly warn Rian not to open the front door. Ultimately however he permitted his nephew to remain next to him, because the boy was openly intrigued by his intentions.

“Formari Cyril.” Jylan called from the second floor.

She looked up, and he emptied the bucket onto her head. Her shriek was involuntary but understandable given that she was standing in half a foot of snow with cold water dripping over her.

“It is advisable,” Jylan stated over the angry shouts of the two swordsmen eight feet below him, “that you should acquire proper shelter and lodgings before the state of your attire and the weather negatively impact your health. As you have conducted yourself outside of acceptable etiquette guidelines by repeatedly requesting entry already denied to you, and failed to provide an introduction when prompted by my brother, I cannot in good faith suggest the dwelling before you as an appropriate waystation. You will find suitable accommodations beyond the Alienage and to the south by a quarter mile, where the rooms are of good value and the vacancies are plentiful in this season. Good day, Formari Mercier.”

“Compounder Anser-” He shut the window and did not hear what she said. Sanjay was laughing and darted downstairs ahead of him to announce his actions to the household. When Ariyah opened the door this time, the trio had left.

Samar laughed and found good fun in his antics, Ariyah complained about the ice that was certain to buildup outside their home after so many buckets of water had been thrown out on their doorstep, Rian laughed like Samar until his nerves caught up with him, and the thought of two angry swordsmen prowling the alienage prompted him to leave the home very quickly to reach his place of work.

There was a knock at the door which silenced all but Sanjay, who dashed up to Rian’s room to open the window again and look outside. They could hear a muffled exchange through the door, but the voice on their doorstep did not belong to Cyril or her swordsmen. It was Master Arainai.

“ _Who_ came knocking?” The assassin wondered as Samar recounted the tale and Ariyah poured a hot cup of tea for their guest. “I have not heard of Owain sending Formari so far from Amaranthine in _years_ , they do not even keep a contract in Denerim yet. You were the precedent-setter, my friend, and Owain seemed quite done with the experiment after your dismissal.”

“I understand that I was replaced in Vigil’s Keep by Formari Nasser,” Jylan explained, clarifying that no, the Guildsmen had not gone back to total isolation on his account. “I do not know why Cyril made such an attempt. I am not longer a Guildsman and have no intention of returning to Amaranthine.”

“Would you be opposed if I were to approach and ask questions on your behalf?”

“So long as my refusal to leave Gwaren is respected, then no, Master Arainai. You may act as you see fit.”

The assassin performed a small bow, fingertips pressed briefly to his forehead in a salute.

Master Arainai left, and Jylan left very late for the Twisted Tail. It was work, and it was important, and he was paid for it.

The day continued better than it had begun.

By the time he returned home Master Arainai was sitting at his sister’s table with a bowl of spiced rice and roasted fish, enjoying himself fully with Tahir eating his own lunch in the assassin’s lap. The child waved to him and tried to speak around a mouthful of rice, but it was Anu who shrieked with delight and grabbed Jylan around the knees first. Dirthamen shook himself of the snow which had begun to fall again outside, and with a miserable huff the dog went to Raveena and dropped across the girl’s lap, knocking the small spinning distaff and spindle from her grasp and causing her to laugh and abandon her chore.

“I have bad news,” Arainai stated once Jylan was seated at the table to his own lunch, Ariyah pouring hot tea for him and refilling Master Arainai’s cup with his pleasant thanks. “And only bad news, unfortunately.”

“Were you unable to speak with Formari Cyril?”

“ _Technically_ yes.” Arainai answered, adjusting Tahir in his lap before the child simply handed his bowl to the assassin and dropped to the floor, eager to play with Dirthamen before his mother or another adult could catch and wipe his hands off. Where the washcloth faltered, Dirthamen’s tongue was apt to pick up the slack. “I did not speak with her, but finding her was very simple. She and her guards have been with your Hahren since your creative dissuasion.”

“That is unfortunate, but I doubt they will receive aid from him. Hahren Masao has left our family alone since my introduction to him.”

“We shall see. For now, tell me how you find life in the Alienage, you and I have not sat about and talked for some time.”

They reviewed several topics of cursory interest. The repairs to the house, his employment, the infant, Saya’s brief return yesterday, his adjustment to living in a house full of children.

“If you were not tranquil I would consider calling you happy. Are you satisfied with your condition?”

“Yes.” Arainai smiled very warmly, his dark eyes crinkled in the corners. Anu was in Jylan’s lap again, and had fallen asleep with a spoon resting in her mouth with some of his shared lunch.

“Then my business in Gwaren is nearly complete, and I am pleased.”

Jylan stood to leave for Neria’s home, and was called to heel by Ariyah.

“With how you came home last night I don’t think she’s going to have much work for you either,” his sister complained with a frown. “If Neria needs you then she can come through the snow this time, I have the rest of her scarf nearly knit anyways. Give me another hour and I can get it done.”

“Master Ashera, I am in _shock.”_ Arainai stated playfully, _“_ Were you drinking with the young midwife?”

“Midwife Surana desired to speak to me of matters relating to the brand and its effects.” Arainai’s face and body went stiff. “That we became mutually intoxicated was justified by the fact that we are both, as Samar put it, cheap drunks.”

“Back up,” the assassin said quietly, eyes wide and face open. “Midwife _what?_ ”

“Surana.”

“Midwife- are you very serious?” Arainai blustered.

“She is uncertain as to the validity of any connection between herself and the Arl of Amaranthine, but maintains that the name is her own through her family. I suggested that she should speak with you, but given your present reaction I am doubtful that she-” Arainai stood up, turned with a step and then came back around. “-has done so.”

The assassin sat back down at the table, hands tightly woven together and resting on the table. He was staring at nothing.

“I will be calm,” he said. “And not get ahead of myself.”

“That is advisable.”

“No, I’ve changed my mind. Get up, ser, you’re coming with me.”

“I have been asked to wait-” Arainai grabbed his wrist and pulled him up. He was still holding Anu and wrapped an arm around her waist so he would not drop her. She startled and clung to him, but did not whine. He was pulled around the table and Ariyah stepped up with arms open to take Anu from him, handing off his cloak as he was dragged to the front door and then out into the snow.

“Master Arainai-” Dirthamen barked gaily and followed them out into the cold, his reservations about the weather falling aside for the sake of following Jylan.

“Quickly now- _quickly_ , Maker’s Breath I know you are much faster than this, Master Ashera.”

“Why am I accompanying you?”

“Because you know the girl and I do not. The last time I saw her I threatened to poison her, and it will not do to appear all by myself now on her doorstep. _Quickly now, Jylan-_ Jeevan. Forgive me. _Quickly_.”

He was pulled and dragged and carried through the ice and snow, physically uncomfortable with the arrangement until they finally arrived on Neria’s front step by her glowstone and blue door. Master Arainai brushed his hands down his chest and took a deep breath, then raised his hand to knock.

He hesitated. Pulled his hand back. Rubbed his hands over his vest again.

He then side-stepped and put both hands on Jylan’s arms from behind, physically shuffling him over in front of the door and holding him there.

“Why are you doing this?” Jylan questioned.

“You know her _and_ she is expecting you. Go ahead, knock.”

It did not make sense, but he did indeed knock.

After a few moments’ quiet, the door was opened by Jeevan. The boy was sleep-tossed and bleary-eyed which was odd considering the depth of the afternoon, but he yawned and stepped aside for Jylan, then jumped and croaked out a question when Master Arainai followed him into the house, still holding his hands on Jylan’s arms.

“Who are _you?_ ” Jeevan asked, closing the door behind them.

“A most crafty and dangerous individual who has lost his nerve, but never fear, my young friend: for I shall reclaim it eventually. Is your mistress home?”

“She’s upstairs, I think.”

“You have not seen her today?” Arainai questioned, his hands still holding Jylan’s arms. Jeevan shrugged.

“I heard her moving around. She might be crafting something, or just being tired.”

“That does not seem very stimulating for a boy of your age.” Jeevan shrugged again and walked away from them, up the stairs to the second floor.

It was not necessary for Master Arainai to continue holding him in place as he was, but Jylan did not voice protest over the matter. He was not being harmed and doubted that harm would commence from the assassin at this point. They simply stood there and waited until Neria came down the stairs with Jeevan following behind her.

“No,” Neria told him, red-eyed and groggy. “No, I don’t have work for you, and if you tell me Tranquil don’t get hangovers I’m never drinking with you again.”

“Tranquil do experience hangovers,” Jylan informed her. “But I am not here to work, or at least that is not the primary reason for my presence.”

“Then… wait, who is-?”

“Midwife Surana,” Master Arainai finally released Jylan’s arms and stepped out from behind him. Neria was too groggy to respond to him. The assassin had an eager light in his eyes which he reeled in and licked his lips quickly to contain, shuffling his feet over the dry floor. “Surana, yes? That is your surname? Your family name? Do you have any _possible_ recollections of your family? Is this your birthplace? This house- is it ancestral to you?” Neria closed her eyes and showed him a palm,

“Slow down, ser?”

“Haha! That is, Maker’s Divine Mercy- how? But did you see that?” Arainai turned to Jylan and pointed to Neria in delight, “The turn up of her nose, the way she closed her eyes?” He did not understand Arainai’s enthusiasm.

“She did close her eyes,” he said, and Arainai was very excited. “Midwife Surana, this is Master Arainai of Vigil’s Keep.”

“Formerly of the Antivan Crows, very formerly of Antiva City,” he added with great enthusiasm.

“Master Arainai, this is Midwife Neria Surana,” Jylan completed the introduction. “Formerly of the Dalish.”

“Very formerly of Zypher’s Ridge?” Neria added as a question merely to indicate her confusion. She stared at them, and then gestured with an open hand to the table by the fire where she and Jylan had become intoxicated the night before. The empty vodka bottle and cups were still sitting there.

“Yes good, sit, yes,” Arainai said, handling Jylan again although he had fulfilled his task of introduction and did not see why- “Sit. _Sit._ Sit down, my friend, in a chair like that, yes.” Jylan sat. “I will not do this again, but-”

Master Arainai scooped Neria up into a sudden embrace and she shrieked at him in alarm, her feet leaving the floor briefly before he put her down and proceeded to hold her in what seemed a very tight hug, then released her completely.

“ _What_ makes you think that-!?” she shrieked and stammered at him, losing her words in her shock. She was more awake now, and Master Arainai backed up by a step and executed a quick bow of forgiveness.

“I understand it is impulsive but _once I may explain myself_ , perhaps I may be forgiven?” He placed his palms together, hands in front of his face, and then quickly made his way to the table and sat down across from the last chair. Neria huffed at him, and then glared at Jylan.

“This is your fault, isn’t it?”

“I was instructed to wait another hour before bringing you a scarf knit by my sister,” Jylan stated, “I had no intention of arriving in this manner.”

“… _nugshit._ ” She said quietly.

“I am being truthful,” he insisted as she cleared away the bottle and cups, leaving them in the kitchen and returning to take her seat.

“Of _course_ you are, Master Ashera.” She drawled, arms folded and one leg hooked over the other. She did not believe him. This was not his fault. This was Arainai’s fault. He had been physically dragged from his house to her house, there were tracks in the snow to prove it. He had not done this.

“I am not at fault,” he insisted again.

“ _Stop_.” This was Arainai’s fault. “You… want to talk about my name, Master Arainai?”

“And so much else, if you will permit it.” The assassin’s eyes were roaming the house. He took in the furs on the walls and floor, Jeevan’s cot by the fire, the herbs hanging from the ceiling. “Is this your family’s home? Were you born in Gwaren?”

“No,” she answered, and immediately Arainai’s spirits fell. “I only came to Gwaren three years ago, I’d never set foot in an alienage before then and the former midwife took me on as an apprentice before leaving the house to me. As Master Ashera said and as most of the alienage knows, I lived among the Dalish for many years. As the Dalish knew before then, I was born in the shem settlement of Zephyr’s Ridge here in the Gwaren Teyrnir.”

“I have not heard the settlement, but to be truthful I have not explored much of the south in many years.” Master Arainai had his elbows on the table, his hands still together and in front of his face. He was listening to her with all of his attention.

“Exploring wouldn’t reveal much,” she told him sadly, “The land was overwhelmed during the Blight and the river arm that supplied the town was rerouted by the damage done to that region of the mountains. I tried to find it when I left the Clan but its just old blight ruins now. Nothing grows, and the air smells like rot.”

“A terribly common fate across the southern Bannorn.” Arainai’s voice was reverent. “You have my sympathies, but my curiosity is not satisfied. If I provided a map, could you indicate the town’s former location?” She was surprised by this.

“I… think so? The traders’ lodges in the city might also have records of it. Zypher’s Ridge was a trapping and logging settlement but the mine was exhausted by the Orlesians. Not much farming up that way and very cold in winter.”

“I will do so, and I will provide the map,” Arainai pledged, though for what reason neither Jylan nor Neria could understand at present. “May I ask after your parents?”

“I would know why, first.” Her voice was defensive.

“Master Ashera already introduced me but I feel I should do so again.” He sat up and placed a hand over his heart, regarding her with sincerity. “Mistress Surana, my name is Zevran Arainai. I came to Ferelden during the Fifth Blight as part of a contract between the Antivan Crows and Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir of Ferelden to hunt down and kill the Grey Warden survivors from the Battle of Ostagar. When I sought to complete the contract, I was handily bested by the young bastard son of Beloved King Maric, and the prodigy of Ferelden’s First Enchanter Irving. That mage mustered the strength of four armies, compelled the Fereldan Landsmeet to his will, crowned the King and Queen of the realm, and struck down the Archdemon Urthemiel atop Fort Drakon to end both the Battle of Denerim and the Fifth Blight itself.”

Neria was very tense in her seat, her arms still folded but now twined about each other rigidly.

“I am familiar with the Ballad of the Warden, Master Arainai. Everyone is.”

“Then I trust you know his name?”

“ _Everyone_ knows the Hero of Ferelden’s name, Master Arainai.”

“May I now ask after your parents, and whatever you know or remember of them?”

“I don’t see what good it will do you, or me.” She spoke and her voice became immediately hushed, words thick and gummy in her throat. “We could be cousins, close or distant, but where does that lead? I just up and walk out of the alienage, cross the nation and knock on the Vigil’s gates? And then what? _‘Hello I’m your long lost something-or-other, give me dresses and jewels and maybe a little bann all to myself’?_ Or, ‘ _Hey you, the Hero, we just met so why don’t you pay me a dowry’_? He’s a Hero and an Arl and I’m some forest witch whose mother probably just picked the name to make sure the Dalish would take us.”

“My dear,” Master Arainai spoke softly, leaning carefully across the table with his hands outstretched. “If your hair were a bit shorter, your figure less feminine, your voice much deeper, and your temper more offended, I would swear I was back on that country road awaiting an explosion of fire to knock me off my feet. The temper I of course mention only because he was quite angry with me for nearly crushing him with a tree.”

Neria laughed briefly, but then closed her mouth and looked away, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. She was tired and this topic was stressful for her regardless of Master Arainai’s gentle words.

“If you remember nothing, Mistress, then it matches what he knows of his own family. I know him well and have considered him a brother for many years. When he is hiding something to protect himself, he behaves one way, when he pretends to hide something he knows he does not have, he behaves in another. My friend is as ignorant of his birthplace or parentage as I am of magic. Already you have given me a place and a name, and I will deliver these to him as surely as my next breath when I meet with him again in the spring.”

Neria was quiet, but she was looking at Arainai again. Jylan was an intrusive presence at the table but neither of them had acknowledged him or indicated that he should leave. Jeevan had left with Dirthamen, and beyond the closed door Jylan could hear the occasional peal of laughter or barking from the boy and the hound.

“I remember… a lot more than nothing, Master Arainai.”

“Please, my dear, call me Zevran.”

“My mother’s name was Halli, for Halliserre the daughter of Andraste. She was a chantry foundling given to the midwives of Chesterhall, the largest town to Zypher’s Ridge. She married an elven logger named Galen. My mother believed very strongly in the Maker and Andraste and she used to take me for the day-long walk to and from the camp to the Chantry in Chesterhall for every holy day. My father traded with and respected the Dalish too much to agree with her. He loved their leatherwork and crafts, and their history and storytelling. They did not have a happy marriage, and I know they had a son before I was born who died as a child- at least, I was told he died. My father died of wasting sickness during a bad winter when I was nine or so, and…”

Her voice faded here and she became quiet. The three of them could hear the fire crackling and the hound playing outside with the boy.

“…and my powers manifested a few months later.” She whispered the admission and master Arainai nodded solemnly, no shock or horror in him. Why should he have been offended? He was loyal to the Archmage of Amaranthine. “It was terrible, and I thought I would die or be sent away. Instead my mother took me and all our food and money and we fled into the wilds to find the Dalish.”

“Your mother was a professed Andrastian, who took her daughter off to find heathens and harbour an apostate?” Arainai spoke with quiet wonder, and Neria nodded dumbly.

“My brother was a mage,” she stated so softly they almost did not hear her. “I found it out in pieces from her. My mother took him to Chesterhall without telling my father and she came back without him. I don’t know what their marriage was like before that, all I know is that I never saw them smile if the other one was around. When my magic came to me she wept for days and said she couldn’t do it again.”

“To go off into the woods is dangerous no matter the season, but if you were nine at the time…” Master Arainai leaned slowly into the next question. “What year were you born in?”

“Nine-nineteen.” The Blight had begun, presumably, before nine-thirty but only reached Ferelden in that year. “We found Clan Talanulea before the Blight reached Ferelden, but… I don’t… look back on that time fondly.”

“Few people do.” Jylan was not certain if she meant the years of the Blight or the years with the Dalish, but he did not inquire and Arainai’s words passed the subject completely: tact. “Is there anything else that you would be willing to share with me?”

“I… I don’t think so, Master Arainai.”

“Perhaps, and it is a stretch I know, do you have any idea of the gap in years between yourself and your brother?”

“Oh- _no_.” She answered, shaking her head. “I could guess, but no better than you. I know there was a year or two, maybe more, between when they lost him and when I was born. I don’t know how old he was when his magic came, she never told me.”

“I know that this is a trying topic for you, Lady Surana,” the change in title was deliberate and meaningful. “You have honoured me with your willingness to speak of it. Perhaps it is my turn? I am at your disposal for any questions you can think of about his Grace the Arl of Amaranthine.”

Neria was overwhelmed again by this offer and looked aside, passing her fingertips under her eyes a few times to gather tears and brush them away.

“I, uhm…” she mumbled, “I can’t even think of what to ask.”

“With something simple perhaps- what is your favourite food?” Arainai’s question drew another pause, but then she answered him.

“There are these little cookies that… they make them for Wintersend and pass them out in the Chantry, with ginger and nutmeg in them.” Arainai smiled warmly and folded his arms, looking up with a sigh.

“The Arl is infamous for his love of fresh fruits, _except pears_ , but anything else he is known to take full advantage of. Apples, peaches, berries of all kind. Once, during the Blight, his lady love played a nasty trick on him by presenting him with a handful of heatherfrond berries and he was sick all night for it. One of the many downsides of growing up in a stone tower, you see.”

Neria took a breath right at the point where she almost laughed, and everything from her eyes to her chest became very still.

“He has a lady?” She whispered, and Arainai’s eyes lit up.

“And a son,” he said with reverence again. “Lady Morrigan is human so Kieran is her splitting image, but he is without a doubt his father’s son. He is fourteen and ye-high, and squired to the King of Ferelden.”

“A lady and a son,” she repeated gently, but she did not smile and the shine over her eyes was becoming more pronounced again. “And titles and heroism and everything else…”

“But not a sister,” Arainai said, anxiety touching his face as he watched her begin to fold into herself. “Or the names of his parents, of where he was born-”

“Where he was abandoned,” she said, looking up and losing a tear down her face. “Where his mother willfully turned away and left him because he was a mage. And if I _am_ his sister, why wasn’t I treated the same way? Why did she love me more, if it was love at all and not just shame over how she treated him and how our father felt? Why would he need to know about the place where his own mother said _‘I don’t want you, and neither does the Maker. Andraste alone will tolerate you’_? He built his _whole life_ in spite of how it started and I have _no right_ to intrude on that.”

“Lady Surana,” Arainai started but Neria stood.

“No,” she said. “Not lady.” Her voice was shaking and she was very upset. “I don’t get a title for being elven and looking like someone special, and Heroes shouldn’t be dragged through the mud just because they were born in it. Zephyr’s Ridge is Blighted, Chesterhall is an empty crossroads, the Suranas are dead and I’m an apostate midwife. You have your answers, Master Arainai, now I ask you to keep them to yourself and not hurt your friend and lord with them. Good day, serrah.”

“But Mistress-”

“ _Good day_ , serrah,” she repeated, trembling terribly now before she looked down at Jylan. “And you, you can leave too. Don’t come back tomorrow, just give me _space._ ”

He had played no part in these events or her confessions but Jylan understood that to argue would only inflame the situation. As he would have with Samar, he did not engage with her present emotional state. He stood with care and stepped away from the table, tucking his chair back in and inclining his head and shoulders to her before heading to the door. He did not open or exit through it yet, lingering instead for Arainai where he was only now coming slowly out of his seat.

The assassin pleaded with his eyes and Neria crossed her arms, shaking lose another tear or two. Arainai folded, and left the table to meet him.

They stepped outside in the afternoon snowfall and Arainai took a long, heavy breath of white. He deflated and looked tired, a new experience. The assassin’s eyes were red but not as watery as Neria’s had been, but he was clearly distressed.

“They are most certainly of the same blood,” he stated sadly, his breaths a cloud of white in the snowfall. “I have no idea how he will take the news, but if anything I think her rejection is the surest sign that yes, they _must_ be family. If I must drag the Arl to Gwaren by his hair, then Andraste as my witness I will do it. Perhaps I can get Anora to summon him?”

“Perhaps you can do that.” Jylan echoed because he did not know what else to say. Neria perceived him as having played an active role in a situation which had upset and clearly caused her emotional harm. That it was a false assertion would not assist him because she was upset and not likely to view things rationally. The only option he was left with was to perform exactly as requested: to not return tomorrow, and to give her space. “May I now return home?”

“What? Why, yes. Of course. Here, I will walk with you.” They were at the end of an alleyway with no alternate roads to access. Jylan did not make this statement out-loud.

Dirthamen barked and caught his attention, the hound standing knee-deep in the snow and panting big clouds of white from his black muzzle. Jeevan and Sanjay were standing together and froze as if caught in an illicit act, before the older boy dropped a knee and placed his hands together. Sanjay grabbed his brother’s shoulder and stepped on his hands, and with a quick ‘ _hup_ ’ the smaller child was vaulted up a stone wall, scrambling with his gloved fingers for places to knock snow and ice away and scramble up the masonry. Jeevan followed with a jump and cleared the wall before his younger brother did, the two of them gone and leaving Dirthamen confused and whimpering at their sudden departure. Wall-rats.

“Hound,” Jylan called, and Dirthamen abandoned the boys with a forlorn bark and came plowing through the snow back to him. He brushed some of the snow off the hound’s thin fur, and then the three of them began walking again.

“In Antiva we used to run across the rooves.” Arainai spoke lightly, “But Fereldan architecture is not so good for that, too many large gaps and sudden drops. And the _snow_ is awful as well. Much safer, as these children do, to dash between the alleys and shadows.”

“They play many such games here.”

It was a short walk home, but before they reached the house properly the three of them stopped. Dirthamen went stiff and his ears shot straight up. Jylan was struck with the realization that he had left Velanna’s knife in his room upstairs. Master Arainai did not break his stride, but the length of it changed and he moved purposefully in front of Jylan as they resumed walking.

Two armed men were standing at the open door to the house, arms folded, breastplates gleaming with the Amaranthine Bear enamelled on the front. Cyril had brought members of the Silver Order to protect her in the alienage.

“Knights of Amaranthine,” Arainai stated, causing both men to stand straighter and come to attention. He took down his hood and one of the men stared outright before snapping a salute. “You are a long ways from home, and far from your place of authority. By what order or right do you stand thus in the Teyrnir of Gwaren?” The door was open and had the appearance of having been thus for some time: the mourning curtain was on the ground and quickly becoming buried in the snowfall.

“Master Arainai,” the saluting soldier stated, and the other gave a jolt before mimicking the salute.

“Ser!”

“Answer my question, gentlemen.”

“Corporal Hifar of Carbrie, ser.” The taller human stated, “Captain Renth of Vigil’s Keep assigned us to protect and safeguard Formari Cyril of the Formari Guildsmen, she’s inside-”

Jylan heard a shriek, followed by a man’s loud voice inside the house.

“Hound, ready.” Dirthamen’s ears remained up and the hound’s jaws opened, a deadly growl ripping up his throat. “Ariyah, protect.”

The mabari’s claws ripped at the snow and ice as he charged from Jylan’s side, aiming to go straight between the two soldiers. One stepped right into Dirth’s path and recoiled with a shout when Arainai threw something at his face.

A knife dropped harmlessly into the snow and the assassin was on the second soldier in a blur, elbow up and one foot kicking across his knee. He dropped and was struck with the assassin’s protected arm across the head. The strike led Arainai to complete a full turn, a twisted red knife as long as his forearm blooming in his hand and pointing straight at the first one’s protected throat.

“Think _very_ carefully, Hifar,” the ex-Crow hissed.

Dirthamen was already through the door and raising horrible screams and yowls from inside. Jylan chose to run despite the snow but staggered when the knight Arainai had kicked drew a sword and stood-

The knight’s heavy boots sank into the snow and Arainai stepped smoothly out of his way, foot up and kicking the knight down so he spilled down into the snow again. The second knight made a swipe for his wrist that knocked Arainai’s knife down, but he answered it with a spin, his second dagger, and a horrified scream when he plunged the dueling blade straight through the exposed join in the back of the man’s shoulder.

“Poor choice,” the assassin growled and pulled the blade free, throwing the armoured and injured man down. “Knights of Amaranthine do not attack _women_ and _children_. If you think your Captain will tolerate such abuses, consider first what the Arl will do when he hears of women screaming in fright in an alienage. Consider what the _Queen_ will expect when agents of Amaranthine are caught in Her Majesty’s City!”

He kicked and ground his heel down into the injured knight, bloodied knife at his side and the other crossed in front of him as he stared down the man with the fallen sword.

“Master Ashera, your family.” Jylan left the violent scene and entered the house. His eyes had not adjusted to the interior light before screaming and small limbs struck his knee and thigh.

He reached down and lifted Tahir into his arms. The child was drowned out by the shouting and yelling overwhelming the house.

“ _Let go of him! Let go! Down! **Uncle**!”_

Ariyah was not visible, the kitchen table had been turned over and there were shadows moving in the stairwell. Samar was on the floor, moving, arms wrapped around his gut and a knife in his hands as he grimaced and tried to stand. The room was shaking with screams.

Jylan saw a knife moving up and down in a fist and with urgency moved into the room. Tahir did not want to be released but Jylan dropped him on the bed as he passed it, grabbed the back of a chair, lifted it, and with both arms swung as hard as he could into the side and chest of Eli Masao.

The other elf staggered, fell, and rolled breathless on the floor in front of the fire.

“Dirthamen to me,” Jylan said quickly, and Dirthamen opened his bloodied jaws and released the Hahren’s leg, the old man screaming until the hound’s long teeth came out of his fleshy calf. The war-hound came around in front of him, hackles raised and jowls dripping with blood, his claws scratching the floor as he adjusted and readjusted to hold his own weight, bloody rents ripped into his back and shoulders. “Tahir, protect.” He had not seen the other children.

The dog did not move quickly because he understood the danger in the situation. The whites of his eyes made them stand out with blood madness, but he did hear Jylan and he did obey. He shuffled his paws and moved until he was between the bed and the man picking himself up off the floor with his bloody knife still in hand.

“Get out of my house,” Jylan told him, still holding the chair. The brute spat at him and then lunged at the dog.

Dirthamen clamped his jaws around Eli’s wrist. Jylan charged with the chair and felt two of the legs slam into the man’s chest before he fell screaming from the combined attack.

“Release,” Jylan said, but put all of his weight into the chair and kept it atop the screaming, now bleeding elf on the floor. Dirthamen’s bite withdrew and Eli jammed his knife up through Jylan’s left calf.

He gasped and lost all strength. The chair slipped and he fell. Dirthamen bit the man’s arm again but something else struck hard to the back of Jylan’s head and turned his vision bright red. He heard Samar shouting, and then Arainai was shouting, and Jylan could not breathe because someone was choking him.

He heard metal clanking and more voices, the hand came off his throat and he could breathe, his leg was numb and resisted when he tried to bend his knee. His eyes were closed and that was why he could not see, and when he opened them he was looking at the fall of dark blue robes with a white under-layer and long sleeves. His heart was beating very quickly, and it was possible that he was experiencing an adrenaline rush.

Formari Cyril was holding the iron prod from the fireplace, and the end of it was dripping with something dark. He sat up and she moved away from him, then extended a hand and helped him to rise. He should not have been able to stand with the knife in his leg but while he remembered its implant, he could not presently feel it.

Samar was on his feet and there was much blood on the floor. His brother and Master Arainai were hauling Eli Masao out of the house. The uninjured Amaranthine knight walked past Jylan and went to Cyril, whom he began to speak to. Dirthamen was growling and remained maddened by the bed where Tahir was crying, the cries of the other children wailing from upstairs.

Jylan turned and saw the Hahren still laying on the floor. As the others were engaged with removing the nephew, Jylan tasked himself with this.

“You will never threaten my sister again.” He stated, and the elder was taking short, panicked breaths, his leg weeping blood where Dirthamen had bit deep and hard. “The hound would not have attacked had he not perceived you as an immediate physical threat. Your presence in this house is intolerable, your disrespect for my family is intolerable, your nephew’s insistence that he his anything but a burden, a liability, and an outright threat to my family is intolerable. This house is property of Ariyah Ashera as-per her legal dowry, and any unwanted trespassers in her home will be removed, as you will be right now.”

“You can’t- that _monster_ -”

“-will kill you if you return to threaten my sister, my brothers, or any other member of my kin. You are dismissed, Hahren Masao.”

He approached, bent down, and grabbed the old man by his belt and the scruff of his shirt. Cyril and the knight offered no protest as he lifted and dragged the Hahren across the floor, to the threshold, and out into the snow. When the Hahren began to protest and fight to stand, Jylan adjusted from holding his shirt to twisting his hand into the old man’s grey hair. Pain provided sufficient discouragement from struggle.

Jylan followed the bloodied drag marks left by the nephew and found Samar and Arainai standing over him. He was badly bruised and bleeding all down his arm. Samar turned and assisted with dragging the old man, and he was dropped rudely across his nephew’s legs. His brother’s torso was bloodied and leaking more red through a long gash across his ribs.

“You are injured,” Jylan stated.

“How the _fuck_ are you walking on that leg?” Samar asked him breathlessly. When he moved to take Jylan’s arm and put it around his shoulders he avoided the grab and began walking back to the house.

“I do not know.” But he would not waste the opportunity presented.

He returned to the house and found Dirthamen still in a state of high distress, ears down, the hound aggressive and standing between Ariyah and her crying son who was still wailing on the bed.

“Hound, heel.” The growling stopped, the dog made a soft noise and his ears came up briefly, then went back down. Blood was streaked and wet across his back from the knife-marks, and with the command to stop the Mabari slowly settled onto his belly right where he had been standing. The whining from pain began immediately.

Jylan walked and he could feel the knife pulling at his pant-leg, pain beginning to scream softly in his calf and shaking from his knee to his foot with each step. Ariyah gathered her child and tried to speak to him but he moved past her to Cyril. The other tranquil had replaced the iron prod she had used to strike Eli with, and stood passive in the corner waiting for his attention, her hands clasped in front of her and elbows tucked to her sides.

“Formari Mercier,” he said. “You will leave this house or I will remove you.”

“Compounder Ansera,” she answered him, “I have bourn witness to great and sudden violence in this household. You are obligated to return with me to Amaranthine for your own safety and well-being.”

“Consider that I have already laid an ultimatum upon you: you will leave this house or I will remove you.”

“You are in no physical state to follow-through on such an ultimatum, therefore I offer a compromise. I will leave if you will come with me to the Bann of Gwaren’s residence, where your wounds will be tended and our departure for Amaranthine arranged in swift and orderly fashion.”

“I reject your compromise and for the final time iterate that you are to leave this house or I will remove you.”

“The Guildmaster has ruled that the circumstances surrounding your announcement to leave the guild were immoral and did not grant you sufficient autonomy or respect as a member in good standing. The first act of reconciliation is to return with you to the guild after formally restoring your rank and-”

“Your interference and blind obedience brought the Hahren into my family’s home, instigating the violence you wrongly claim to relieve and protect me from. Your negligence endangered the lives of the children and adults living in this house, a second and more gross repeat of events which nearly brought about the execution of a framed and entrapped Grey Warden. That you profess intentions of protection while simultaneously instigating the violence that overwhelmed my family is an intolerable and profane abuse of authority. That you prioritize the advancement of the guild over the lives of innocent and uninvolved people is repugnant on all levels of understanding, and the stink I accuse you of begins with the Guildmaster and filters down to the lowest levels of the hierarchy. Your presence offends me, your offer repulses me, you, Formari First Class Cyril Mercier of the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine, will leave this house or I will remove you.”

She was quiet and watched him for several moments with her pale grey eyes.

“You have indicated your bluff by repeating your ultimatum for a fourth time, after previously stating that the third would be the final-” He punched her.

“ _No more bloodshed_ ,” Arainai hissed behind him, and with a solid thunk the knight standing in the house to guard Cyril was laid low by the assassin. This permitted Jylan to reach down and grab the stunned tranquil by her white hair, which he twisted around his shaking hand before he dragged her to the front door.

“I provided no such indication of bluff or hesitation in my statement,” he stated with rattling breaths, hauling her across the bloodied floor as she gasped and struggled not to resist him. She was tranquil, and tranquil did not resist. “If you return to this house, it will be to offer a formal apology on behalf of the Guildsmen to my sister for destroying her home and instigating bloodshed and violence before her children.”

He hauled her out into the snow and found the well-trodden place where the slush had began to pool. Here he dropped her, and with pain and injury scoring his leg and bringing fatigue roaring through his ears, he returned to the house. Arainai and Samar dropped the second, dazed Amaranthine knight right by the door.

He returned inside and the door was closed and locked behind him by Master Arainai.

He was breathing very hard, and in found himself first in considerable and then steadily increasing agony.

He surrendered the ability to walk, and this time did not possess the wherewithal to resist when Samar grasped him by the arm and hauled him back up to brace his weight over his shoulders. He was placed on a chair by the fire, and Samar dropped on the floor next to him, wincing and nursing his cut arms and the slash over his ribs. The main level stank of blood from too many sources: the Hahren, the _etunashol_ , Samar, Dirthamen, and Jylan.

He did not believe the children were injured, Ariyah was inconsolable and weeping, begging to know if anyone had seen Sanjay- it was Master Arainai who stated the boy was safe and running the alleys with his brother. Tahir and Anu wailed and cried like their mother, the boy placed in Jylan’s embrace because his worst injury was his leg, not his arms or torso, and only comfort would quiet he children. He held his nephew securely in his arms, and because he was losing the adrenaline which had kept the pain and his injuries at bay, he mimicked what he had seen many, many times from his brothers and kissed Tahir’s crying cheeks and soft hair to calm him. Dirthamen rested at his feet and whined from his own wounds, which Master Arainai reviewed and pronounced as superficial, but certainly painful and worthy of attention.

Raveena overtook care of the hound, dabbing his pocked hide with a damp rag and clean water, which had something poured from a bottle at Master Arainai’s belt added to clean and sooth the wounds. The girl shook and cried from the stress infiltrating her home, but the mabari settled his head in her lap and whined with her, providing comfort. The larder did not contain elfroot or poultice, and these absences struck Jylan as glaring on his part as they were the basis of his profession. The necessary potions were provided to them by the assassin.

“I will repay you,” Jylan heard himself say, cuddling Tahir’s quiet face under his jaw. His boot was removed and pant-leg rolled up, and Arainai’s scarred hands worked skillfully and well to tend the violent wound in his leg.

“I will not fail again,” Zevran told him, and did not look up from his work by the fireside.

With great anxiety and the metallic tang of raw fear saturating the house, it passed.

The ordeal was over.

 


	38. Community Sense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted same day as chapter 37!

 

[Part 37]

“I told you to give me space, not to go and get yourself stabbed by the _etunashol_.”

“If you are implying that the injury is somehow my fault and not the direct result of actions taken by the _etunashol_ himself, then I-”

“Jeevan,” Ariyah put a hand on his shoulder. “Just let the poor woman work.”

“This is not my fault,” Jylan insisted from his place in bed.

“I know, Jeevan, now hush.”

The blood in their house was washed away by Master Arainai and stained the snow outside their home. Ariyah fetched Neria from her home only to find Neria absent. It was not until that night, after she had tended to the hahren and his nephew, that Neria arrived tired and horrified by their family’s needy state. For whatever reason, her tenderness and concern for every other member of the household turned to rudeness and condemnation of Jylan, and he did not understand why.

“I did not invite trouble into my family’s home,” he argued as she rolled her eyes and rubbed the heel of her palm across his calf muscle, feeling through his flesh to assess the damage done by Eli’s knife. “I assisted in its removal.”

“By getting yourself _stabbed_.”

“Samar was also injured,” he reminded her.

“Samar knows how to _fight_.” She told him tersely, “He got _cut_ and his bandages will do just fine.”

“Dirthamen was also injured,” he attempted, and winced when she pinched him.

“Dirthamen is a _dog_ ,” she said, and the hound made a noise of protest from his place laying flat next to Jylan on the bed. “A _war-_ dog, who has sharp teeth and sharp claws.” The midwife began to smile and adopted a babying tone for the dog, which made his ears perk up and his short tail begin to wag. “And is a _good boy_ , isn’t he? He’s the big scary _war dog, isn’t he?_ Yes he is- _yes he is,_ Dirthamen, _God of Secrets_.”

She pinched Jylan again. He did not know why but had been cautioned by Ariyah, and now had her hand pressing firmly on his shoulder to bid him hold his silence.

“Why _did_ you name your dog after the Dalish God of Secrets?” Neria asked him in a derisive voice and Jylan decided the question was beneath-

“I request that you stop pinching me.”

“I’m not pinching you.”

“I request that you stop digging your nail into my leg and grasping tightly with your finger.”

“Why did you name him for a Dalish god?”

“I took the name upon consideration of a Dalish Warden’s Valasslin as a means of communicating appreciation for her friendship and aid during Amaranthine’s war campaign against Redcliffe.”

“Did she save your life?”

“No, but I do not travel easily and she ensured that my needs were not overlooked in the overwhelming list of duties associated with long travel in a war-party.” Surana stopped pinching him, and with his foot braced in her lap and his injured leg accessible to her hands, cool healing light began to filter from her palms into his wounded flesh. The magic did not feel good, but the pain began to retreat as he finished his explanation. “Dirthamen was granted to me when our returning party stopped for a week in Denerim, and he received his name later upon our arrival at Vigil’s Keep.”

Her magic continued to pull and weave through him, and her focus was drawn more to that than what he was saying. It was possible, with some reflection, that she had been antagonizing him to distract him from her magical practice. It was also possible that she simply did not like him and sought to discomfort him intentionally with her behaviour. Ultimately, he did not know and was not inclined to ask her.

“Next time, be more careful,” Neria told him in a kinder voice than expected, tucking his healed and now numbed leg back under the blankets. He was in his bed upstairs, and Ariyah was stroking her hand across the top of his head where his hair had been unbound and brushed out by her before Neria’s arrival. The two women embraced and held each other tightly for a few seconds, and before she left Neria leaned over him and brushed her hand across Dirthamen’s cleaned snout and muzzle, the hound lifting his head and closing his eyes at the gentle affection she showed him.

She left after that, and Ariyah bade him good night. Samar was downstairs with Rian, who had come home to find much of the nightmare resolved but enough signs of the struggle and violence lingering to set off his deep fears and profuse anxiety. He had been worried by the presence of the knights that morning and now felt deep guilt over having left the house, but it was not his fault.

Cyril had brought the Hahren, who had brought his nephew, and the two men had entered the home with the knight’s intimidating presence. The Masaos had stated that Jylan was to leave with the guildsmen, and his siblings had protested. The argument had grown heated, and Samar and Eli had come to blows and swiftly drawn blades against each other. Jylan and Zevran had returned in time to stop either man from hurting Ariyah or her children.

There would be a reprisal. They did not know what form it would take, but Zevran did not want to leave them tonight and tomorrow he said would track down Cyril and her knights to ensure they understood how very unwanted their presence was. He did not have an official rank within the hierarchy of Vigil’s Keep and Amaranthine Arling, but he did not need one: he was known to the Silver Order and had already threatened to go to the city’s Seneschal if agents of Amaranthine continued to cause trouble in Gwaren. The Queen, he said, would appreciate any opportunity to inconvenience the Arl of Amaranthine even if the reason came from her alienage.

Jylan went to sleep, and in the morning there was no reprisal from the Hahren. He readied himself and went to the Twisted Tail, where Saya came to sit in the kitchen and speak to him of rumours of bloodshed and fighting in the alienage, which he confirmed. She cuddled Dirthamen’s head in her lap for much of his time working, and showered the hound with affection and a large bowl of cut up goat liver and intestines.

“Who’s a good boy? _You’re a good boy_ , yes you are, _yes you are_. This tastes so much better than the shitbug doesn’t it, boy? _Doesn’t it?_ Good boy!” His sister baby-talked and coo’d to the dog, and Jylan did not understand the growing trend of speaking to the hound in this manner but did not question it either. The interaction pleased his sister and did not inconvenience him.

There was no reprisal at home, and no danger came to the house throughout the afternoon or evening. As instructed yesterday, he did not go to the midwife’s house to work in the later part of the day.

The next day there was no reprisal.

Cyril reappeared without her guards outside the Twisted Tail. She told Jylan he would return with her to Amaranthine and he refused her. She reappeared the next day and this time he requested Bruiser the doorman’s aid in removing her from the premises, which he did with a sense of bemusement but ultimately no harm.

The rest of the week passed without incident. More snow covered the blood and messy tracks from their house through the lane. The neighbours remained as distant as before: Jylan had been in the alienage for two months and had never spoken with anyone besides his family, the midwife, and the long-finished workmen.

Cyril reappeared again in the market, stating that he was obligated as one of the Tranquil to return to the guildsmen. Samar told her to fuck off. Rian and the children threw snow at her. Jylan repeated that he would not go and then walked away to continue the shopping trip.

He collected his Firstfall pay from Amaranthine without encountering any difficulties. The larder was restocked, and a goat was purchased for First Day. Extra vegetables and dried beans were purchased to feed the animal. Dirthamen made the goat very nervous and the creature did not have much time to gain weight, or impetus to do so with the Mabari’s persistent, hungry gaze. It bleated constantly at all hours of the night and as it was a goat it was inclined to defecate on the floor in the main living space. As it was a male goat it could not breed or give milk.

If it did not taste good on First Day Jylan weighed the option of simply refusing to get another one next winter.

Cyril loitered under the _Vhenadhal_ but Jylan did not often walk under the tree near to where she waited. She publicly called out that he must return at Guildmaster Owain’s behest to Amaranthine. He walked past her and said no.

He acquired a decent bundle of elfroot from the market and filled a mason jar with poultice, curing the rest and hanging in the larder. He made dye in four colours, and Ariyah dipped, cured, and dried the new clothing for the children in the red, green, yellow, and blue pots with great delight. She was very happy with the colours and when he produced another pot of green dye for her, she sold it, and he saw his green in the weave of a woman’s skirt in the alienage, and then in the cloak of another man. Come spring and summer when the herbs would grow in abundance outside the city his dye recipes would prove more profitable and useful for their family.

Another week passed without incident and Jylan received his pay from both the brothel and Neria, for whom he was able to resume working. He and Saya visited the market near the tailor houses, and between the two of them they purchased a quantity of fine wool and pleasantly woven cotton. His younger sister took the fabric back to the brothel with her, as well as a large jar of concentrated crimson dye. Whatever she intended to make would be ready by First Day.

Another week and Firstfall ended. He collected his Amaranthine pay for Haring, ignoring Formari Cyril when he saw her waiting for him at the doors of the Dwarven Merchant’s Guild.

Back in the alienage, Jylan interfered with Jeevan’s magical instruction.

“May I suggest an alternative?”

“What?”

“I can’t _do_ magic! I can’t! I _can’t!_ ”

Over the passing weeks, his observations during afternoons in Neria’s home had revealed little change in his nephew’s magical abilities. Neria and Jeevan did not share a positive relationship, if any such connection existed at all. As she was not skilled in cooking beyond over-brewing tea or making unleavened, unsalted bread, the child fended mostly for himself, eating most of his meals cold or without the seasonings which he had grown up with. As any discussion of magic led immediately to Jeevan’s sense of frustration, so therefore they did not often talk about the main reason why he was even living with her versus the rest of his family, when the two of them spoke at all.

Neria did not keep track of where the boy was throughout the day and he did not tell her when he left or where he was going. Jylan knew that his nephew saw Saya at least as often as he did, if not more, but he learned this from Saya and not the boy himself.

Before he had left Amaranthine, Jylan had been given a mage’s spellbook by Warden Sephri. A beautiful, blank, book of fine paper and strong binding. He had nearly filled the small leather folio often clipped to his waist, the same book he had used to track requisitions at Vigil’s Keep and now used primarily to mind his finances here in Gwaren. Another small folio like it would suit him when this one ran out of pages, the spell book was too big and too heavy. He was also not a mage.

Jeevan was a mage.

“I cannot demonstrate the techniques of Circle Mages, but I can explain them to you.” His nephew’s green eyes were red with frustration, and the boy looked up at him from the floor next to his cot where he had been sitting for another of Neria’s lessons in songs and chanting. “Come to the table.”

He explained the primary values to the boy, understanding that his explanation would be dry and boring. He drew the first five values, the five numbers and their associated shape and form on paper. Jeevan was competent to draw light at the end of his finger and trace shapes with it, and did so now.

He drew the first five very easily, and used them to form a spell-base which hovered in the air for a good half-minute. He was mystified by the ease of the technique, and passed the book back to Jylan to continue drawing numbers for him.

“The two schools are not contradictory, but they are dissimilar,” he explained to both Neria and his nephew. “Dalish spell forms are not wholly incompatible with Circle spell graphs.”

“It’s been so long though,” she said, equally at awe as Jeevan had been, the boy now studiously practicing behind them. “Ten years? How do you remember any of it?”

“I studied for over six years before the Rite of Tranquility, and the cardinal values are used by the Formari as the building blocks of lyrium enchantment. I also aided Warden Guerrin in his studies as a Spirit Healer, and as a Tranquil I find such tedious self-study to be little trouble. I have memorized several hundred of these values and am able to explain their function, but it is the actual control and manipulation of the energies which I cannot demonstrate or coach.”

“You’ve been watching us struggle for _weeks_ without sharing this?” She asked, and threatened to grow cross with him.

“It did not seem wise or polite to interrupt or insert myself as an authority in something I cannot do,” he explained. “You are the Mentor and my nephew is the Apprentice. It is only by your leave that I may supplement Jeevan’s education, and I would not offer the suggestion if it was not apparent that you are both struggling with the current method.”

“Please help him,” she told him without reservation. “You said you would if he needed you, and he needs you: please help.” He nodded, and pledged to do so. His time spent in her home remained the same, but only half the hours were devoted to brewing, mixing, and packing medicines. The other half was for sitting with his nephew and helping him fill the pages of the spell book. Jeevan’s frustration slowly, by very small degrees, began to recede.

No reprisal followed from the Hahren. Perhaps none would come. Rian brought home a folio of paper one night in early Haring and a pot of poor quality ink, and asked him a question over dinner.

“Can you read Justinian?” The formal script of Orlais and the Chantry, as opposed the runic trade alphabet.

“Yes.”

“Can you write it too?” His brother was wringing the hem of his shirt, a nervous habit he sometimes displayed when anxious.

“Yes.”

“Could you… maybe… show me how?”

“To read and write Justinian script?”

“Ehm… yes? I mean it’s for work- it would be… it would help me out a lot. I can do my numbers and my letters and I have an even hand, easy to read, but- _Justinian_.”

“I can do so, yes.” And for an hour each night that was what he and Rian did by candlelight. He drew the symbols in a vertical row and his brother copied them out. He formed basic words and Rian practiced them. His brother struggled and his ink often blotted and ran askew, but Jylan did not have patience to exhaust and Rian was determined to succeed. Slowly, like Jeevan, he improved.

The quiet hour after dinner also became the time to instruct Sanjay and Raveena in the basics of trade letters, but with waxed planks of wood and etching sticks instead of costly ink and paper. Raveena preferred to draw on her plank, Sanjay would only accept instruction from Rian. Still, that both children consented to sit for an hour and focus was still progress in the right direction.

His family was settled and happy, the children were looking forward to First Day. There was no reprisal. Master Arainai brought their family an early gift in mid-Haring: a book of collected stories and fairy tales, with a finely tooled cover and illuminated pages for each tale.

Rian was the better reader, Samar was more expressive, Jylan’s voice could not intone or fluctuate in the same way which delighted the children. He used lines from the stories each child enjoyed most to focus and reward Sanjay and Raveena for actually practicing their letters. Tahir began to pretend to write with a stick on the stone floor. When Jylan transliterated one of the stories into Justinian script and presented it to Rian for copying, his brother had scribed only the first line before he looked up bitterly.

“I hate this one,” he huffed.

“It is excellent practice.” The Facetious Fox and the Elderberry Bramble, a fourteen-line tongue-twister with a fast rhythm neither of them were competent to read out-loud, but which Samar had mastered.

“Yes, but I _hate_ this one. I’ve read it twelve times already at bedtime.”

“Then it should be a simple exercise for you.”

“Neria’s right, you’re an _asshole._ ”

The goat bleated at them with its cross-eyed stare, and then defecated on the floor. Jylan looked at Rian again.

“You are certain that it will taste good.”

“It’ll taste a lot better than it smells, I promise you that.”

“Dirthamen consumes significantly more food and excretes far less frequently.”

“Are you suggesting we roast your dog instead?”

“No.”

“Buck-up,” Rian told him with a grin, and then reached up with the quill in his hand to tickle the base of Jylan’s chin. He recoiled from the friendly gesture. “One more week until we feast. Be a dear and sweep that up, will you?”

The last week of Haring began. No reprisal reached their family from the Hahren’s house. Jylan almost did not notice the extra tracks and traffic at the door to Neria’s home despite the fresh snow-fall from the night before.

When he entered the main room, there were six men sitting in Neria’s house by her fire talking quietly to one another. A few looked at him, then went back to ignoring him.

Upstairs, Jylan heard a sudden, painful shriek from a woman which petered out quickly into a moan. The sound made the men fall completely silent. One began to pray with his hands clasped to his forehead, and an older man offered chewing tack to his kinsman. They heard footsteps overhead. There were more people upstairs.

Jylan had walked into a birth.

“Uncle-” Jeevan was standing on the steps, huffing and hauling a bucket of water which was far too full. Jylan approached the child and looked into the bucket: it was only clean, cold water. No, that would not do unless he meant to clean the floor, and it would not make sense to clean the floor before the birth was complete.

“When did this begin?” He asked Jeevan, taking the bucket from him despite the boy’s sudden protest.

“No, I need that-!”

“They will need hot water, not cold, and not so much that you will spill it.” He took the water and motioned for the men gathered by the fire to move, which they did with rude looks and bitter grumbles at his presence. He placed Neria’s cauldron over the flames and poured a third of the water into it, so it would heat faster. As he added more wood to the fire he repeated his question. “When did this begin?”

“They brought her this morning,” his nephew answered, his words echoed by one of the nervous men sitting at the table. “Dawn, I think? It woke us up.”

“What food have you taken to them?” The boy did not answer him, Jylan picked up the second, smaller cauldron and hooked it in place. Neria’s hearth was very large and well made, it had room for three pots of different sizes to heat. He poured another third of the bucket into this one. “Jeevan, what food have you taken the midwife, the mother, and the attending women?”

“Um-” He was only ten, or near to eleven. He was a boy and would not have been told much of births save what he may have observed during his siblings’ arrivals. He did not know what was expected of him as Neria’s apprentice. “I’ll find something.”

“No.” Jylan was not a midwife or a medic, he was an apothecary. He did not have Valora’s expertise or Vessa’s training, but he had been present before. He knew what was expected of himself. “You will go to your mother’s house and request a cup of rice and a bowl of her softened beans or peas, whichever she will give you.”

“But the water, uncle-” water to wash hands, to sooth the mother’s face, to slack thirst, to rinse away blood.

“The water will heat while you fetch the ingredients from your mother, when you return you will take it up to the midwife. There is no cause for you to panic, only to listen and pay attention.” And here, for the child’s benefit, Jylan repeated himself as he hung the smallest pot and filled it to the top with water. “Go to your mother’s house and request a cup of rice and a bowl of softened beans or peas.”

Jeevan left with these instructions. Jylan brought a copper bowl from the cupboard and selected from the herbs and stores in Neria’s kitchen, all of which he was closely familiar with. The storage was not as expansive as it had been in Connor’s workshop, but it was capable of fulfilling the midwife’s needs.

Dried Arbour Blessing, blue and black cohosh, mint, ground ginger root, honey to taste. He boiled this and several other ingredients in the smallest pot. In the middle one he deposited peeled and chopped parsnips and shredded cabbage, with garlic and salt, and then a chopped onion.

He ladled hot water into a wide bowl until it was half full and placed a clean cloth in it, trading the bowl to Jeevan for the rice and legumes and directing the boy up the stairs. The ingredients went into the pot of food.

He stirred the steaming infusion of herbs and used a different ladle to dish that into a small, shallow bowl. When Jeevan returned, he handed the bowl to the child with the command: “For the mother, all of it.”

He gave the boy the kitchen bucket when he came back from delivering the infusion.

“Bring back any soiled dishes or rags. Pour the used water into the bucket, ignore anything you hear from the Fade.” Birth and blood and pain would attract spirits. Jylan could not hear or sense them as he was Tranquil and Neria would know how to properly tune out and disregard their curiosity. Jeevan was still young and required the softly spoken reminder.

“Throw the water into the alley behind the house.” The boy scurried out and did so as Jylan scrubbed the bowls and cups and other water-carrying vessels out with harsh soap, including the rags that had come down from the birthing room. He then sent Jeevan out again with the water bucket this time to fetch from the well. Up the stairs with another bowl of hot water and clean rag, down with the soiled portion thrown outside in the alley. Back to the well for more water, which was heated, and taken upstairs.

“How many women are upstairs except the mother?”

“I… I don’t know, uncle.”

He gave the boy a bowl of hot rice and beans and cabbage and parsnips and potatoes and onions.

“For the midwife, ask how many women are with her.”

The answer was four: two sisters, a mother, and an aunt along with the birthmother and midwife. Jeevan carried four more bowls of food upstairs and came back with Neria’s empty one, which Jylan dropped straight into the wash bucket due for a refill with clean water.

He gave the boy another bowl of food.

“Who for?” Jeevan asked him breathlessly as Jylan opened a bottle of red wine found in Neria’s cupboard and mixed it with the last of the fresh water from outside. He poured some into a cup and gave that to the boy as well, turning him around and directing him to the fire.

“For you. Eat, and when you are finished return to help me.” The boy reached the fire and looked back at him in disbelief, but Jylan needed more fresh water and fetched the bucket himself, taking to the-

“I’ll do it,” one of the men said, stopping him at the door. “I can’t- keep sitting here doing nothing. Where the hell have you been all day?”

“Return with the water and I will answer your questions.” The man left through the snowfall and Jylan poured the last of the herb infusion into another cup, throwing the stewed herbs into the waste bucket before taking the infusion upstairs.

The doorframe of the birthing room was painted red on purpose, to denote its special meaning. While he had in fact entered the birthing room once before, it was frowned upon for men to do so except to mourn the passing of a child or birthmother. With active labour in progress, it was forbidden by convention for any man to cross the red beam unless his presence could somehow provide immediate, life-saving aid.

Valora’s birthing room at Vigil’s Keep had been her hutch itself, with the rope and stool hidden when not in use, and her red threshold a piece of wood easily lifted and removed so as not to inconvenience others. The only man in Vigil’s Keep ever permitted to enter a birthing room was Archmage Surana, because as a spirit healer if mother or child fell into immediate peril his was the only magic potent enough to safeguard their lives. There was no spirit healer in Gwaren, if Neria’s magic could not suffice in a crisis then there would be no third line of defense.

He could hear sharp breathing and murmuring voices inside the room.

Jylan knelt at the door and knocked briskly, and the door was cracked open by Neria, who was visibly pale and under great stress. Her pale hair was damp from sweat and the air around her hot and heavy with copper.

“It _is_ you,” she gasped at him, and Jylan gave her the infusion.

“For the mother.”

“More light- and something for the smell.” He nodded and left.

There was no need to make incense or candles: both were found in their boxes in their cupboards, were placed on two stacked wooden plates so the ash and wax would be easy to clear away, and brought back upstairs.

He knelt, he knocked, her hands grabbed the incense and handed him the stacked dirty bowls, the soiled dish of used water, and the bloodied rags.

“Why didn’t you come to help sooner?” the workman downstairs asked him, and Jylan was able to answer this time as he refilled the water pot and kept his hands moving as he spoke.

“Because I was not informed of the event,” he answered, dishing the rinsed and available bowls with the rest of the hot food. “I was sitting with my sister up the lane and only came this way when the appropriate hour arrived for me to commence work for the midwife. Had I known sooner, I would have come sooner. It is difficult to offer help when the need is not communicated.”

“The boy could have fetched you.”

“Did anyone tell him to do so? He is a child, we are grown men; it is beneath us to expect a child do to what his elders are not capable of.” He gave the last bowl to the man questioning him and went back upstairs. He took clean water, damp but laundered rags, and this time it was an old elven woman who answered the knock instead.

“You’re Ariyah’s brother, aren’t you?” She asked him, taking the water but staying in her crouch at the red threshold. “Simran’s fourth-born.”

“Yes.” She handed him a bowl containing more bloodied water. The voices behind the old woman were calm but constant, and the panting, laboured breaths of the mother were still audible. She had not screamed in some time.

“The Hahren doesn’t like you, or any of Simran’s children.” The old woman told him this in a low, judging voice.

“If the Hahren arrives to assist the midwife and competently supplant me in my role downstairs, then I will not protest or make a fuss. Until he makes such an appearance however, I would know what your kinswoman requires at present, or if I should simply return with more hot water.” Her dark gaze faltered, and then softened.

“My daughter is in too much pain to drink or take the infusion you brought her. The midwife said she needs snow, but she can’t eat. If the baby doesn’t come soon the Maker will take her from us…”

“Snow may provide refreshment and some moderate relief, but I believe the midwife meant snowdrops, a potent and valuable herb which is administered as an oil.” He explained this and then nodded to the distressed old woman. “I will return shortly.”

Downstairs he checked only to verify that Neria did not have snowdrop oil. The brown glass bottle was present, but empty. When he poured clear water into it and shook vigorously, he poured only water again into the white bowl on the counter.

He did not have time to distill more oil, but checked the dried herbs about the kitchen and pinned to the wall. The only snowdrops present in the house were so old that their rich leaves had curled and turned grey, and the white blossoms were filled with dust. This made sense to him: Neria did not possess the herbalism knowledge necessary to either recognize the value of the plants she had inherited, or the foolishness to waste them with improper preparation.

He instructed Jeevan to wash the dishes with the clean water and soap and left the-

“You can’t leave!” Another young man jumped up and shouted when he reached the door. Jylan stopped and took note of all the kinsmen standing up as the one who had shouted to him pushed around the others and came to him, pleading. “My wife’s up there- you’ve been helping- feeding her- the _medicines_. You can’t go! What if Surana needs something? What if they need _help?_ ”

“Jossan,” one of the older men grumbled, perhaps the birthmother’s father or uncle. The husband in front of Jylan was gathering tears in his wide eyes, and his ears were long and drooping from worry and anxiety.

Jylan nodded, indicating his understanding of the husband’s plea, but then explained himself.

“The midwife requires an oil which she has run out of. I possess a bottle of it but must fetch it from my home. I would send one of you, but the bottle is hidden and locked up. It would take far longer for me to explain how to access it than for me to simply go, retrieve, and bring it back here. I will not linger and understand that the matter is urgent- if you will be satisfied by having another accompany me then we must depart swiftly. I understand that your wife is not in immediate danger, but cannot provide more information than that.”

“I’ll go,” the man who had fetched water said. “Jossan, stay here in case something changes. I’ll get Ashera to his house and back before the water’s done boiling.” Jylan and nodded and left the house. “ _Shit! Wait!_ I still need-! Nevermind!”

The brother followed him without cloak or robe, thick snowflakes grabbing his twisted brown hair as they both marched quickly through the snowy trench. A good four feet of snow had accumulated in parts of the alleyway, but the main tract remained decent for walking. The brother hammered his fist on the door to Jylan’s home, but the door was not locked and Jylan simply opened it for the bashful man.

“Oh- _fuck…_ Sorry?”

“Jeevan-?” Samar asked when he stepped inside, closely followed by- “ _Hallin?_ Just what brings _you_ into this house?”

“Ahh- Samar…” Jylan had his knees run into by Tahir who swung his arms around them in a tight hug. He lifted the child to his shoulder and continued walking as he did so.

“Yeah, _Samar_ , the elf who’s been back in the Alienage all winter and who _you_ ’ _ve_ never had ten minutes to say hello to.” His brother sounded angry, but more so he sounded hurt. “Should I even _bother_ asking why, _ma_ -fucking- _falon_?”

“The… the _Hahren_ , Samar, he’s been-”

He did not hear the rest of Hallin’s bashful answer but passed Tahir to Ariyah, who was stepping out of the larder. She accepted her son without missing a beat, a string of smoked fish hanging from her other hand. Jylan hurried up the stairs with Anu laughing and scampering behind him trying to hide under his cloak.

He reached his room and found Sanjay and Raveena sitting on his bed with shocked and guilty faces, the two children sitting on top of his open enchantment tool kit and trying to hide it with their legs. As the tools were clean and the lyrium was kept separate from them, he had no reason to scold this behaviour at present. Later, perhaps, but not now.

“Out please, and take your sister.”

“Yes, uncle.” Sanjay was off the bed at once to gather Anu and escape.

“Is Dirth back?” His niece asked, stopping in front of him. “Is dinner ready?”

“No, Raveena. Out please.”

“Uncle, tell mamae the goat keeps trying to eat my doll.”

He picked his niece up, turned, and deposited her out into the hall. She pouted at him and he closed the door. She would stand there and glare at the door until he opened it again, but he knew she would not try to open it and come inside without permission if he was home.

The bed was tall enough for him to fit his head and shoulders under it, and it had not been so long ago since he had last disturbed the floor that there was much dust to be found. He pulled on the cord around his neck and retrieved the copper rod from Amaranthine attached to Amara’s pendant, and tapped the enchanted key on a specific floorboard three times.

The wood grain sparked softly and then began to glow with lyrium’s blue light. He marked six places with a star pattern and the light winked out, permitting him to lift the loose floorboard and reach inside. The space was not deep and his hand first touched the Cherrywood lock-box, then felt to the side and reached the basalt wood box from Midwife Valora.

He withdrew the box with both hands, replaced the wood plank, restored the charm, and crawled out from under the bed. He placed the box on his dresser and opened it, quickly selecting the brown glass bottle with the appropriate marks on top and glued label around its wide belly. He put the bottle in his pocket.

He opened the door, picked up Raveena, kissed her on the cheek and carried her downstairs. He put her down next to the goat who bleated rudely at both of them, and touched Hallin on the arm to indicate that he had completed his task. The other elf was still talking to Samar, wringing his hands and shuffling his feet in a shameful dance as Ariyah stood beside her brother with a scowl.

Jylan left the house before Hallin did. He returned to Neria’s home before Hallin did. He picked up three handfuls of fresh snow and brought them into the house, to the kitchen, into a bowl. Three was too much and he scooped the excess away, rubbing his hands to restore the feeling in them before withdrawing the bottle of gold oil from his pocket and opening it carefully.

He measured exactly one teaspoon into the snow, tossed it gently, and carried it upstairs.

He knelt, he knocked.

“She must eat all of the snow and drink all of the melt: there is a single dosage of snowdrop oil in the bowl.”

“ _Where-?”_ Neria gasped, transferring the bowl from one hand to both and cradling it close. He thought she meant to ask where the oil was as it was difficult to see after mixing, but her next question clarified her meaning and the sudden presence of misty tears in her eyes. “ _How_ did you get _snowdrop oil_?” From Midwife Valora’s requisitions, with the raw materials supplied by Vessa and An’eth, processed in Connor’s workshop.

“I made it,” he said.

She grabbed him, she kissed him, and then she shut the door in his face.

He went downstairs and continued his duties with the water and the washing. The labour lasted for several more hours and well into the night. The birthmother did better and was able to drink both the infusion and a thin soup of lamb bones, ginger and onion. Jylan was spared the task of cooking again by Ariyah, who arrived at the house after dark with her largest pot carried by Rian and filled with a steaming brown curry filled with soft potatoes, chunks of mutton, heavy rice, and sweet carrots all blanketed in the smoky, spicy sauce. There was enough for him to eat as well.

Samar and Hallin arrived with somber faces, but bearing two casks of ale. Jeevan was relieved by Sanjay to continue carrying water. Dirthamen kept the younger three children corralled by the fire where their presence offered a distraction for the stressed men still sitting in Neria’s main room. Jylan was fatigued, but did not consent to sit for longer than it took him to eat. Rian took the children home when they began to fall asleep and Jylan was aware of Zevran lingering in the cold outside without approaching the door. Samar was pulled into a low, gruff discussion with several of the younger men including his friend Hallin and the birthmother’s husband. They rolled dice together but didn’t gamble that Jylan saw.

The house was very quiet save for his work and the crackling fire.

At near to dawn the next morning, a healthy baby girl was born to the sound of joyful yelling from the women sequestered upstairs in the birthing room. The men downstairs echoed with clapping and yelling and hoisting the half-asleep father up on their shoulders with loud and raucous cheering. Jylan ensured the towels were hot and ready and the water to bathe the infant and refresh the mother was provided with soft ash soap.

When Neria pronounced that the mother was strong and well, the crowd finally broke up in her home. Copper pieces were stacked on her mantel as payment for her services. The sisters and aunt came downstairs looking exhausted but relieved, and the baby’s father was ushered upstairs to speak to his wife and admire his daughter from behind a beaded curtain strung across the doorway. He was dedicated and did not consent to move from the doorway until much later in the morning, after his wife had nursed and slept for a few hours and was ready to return home.

Jylan understood when Ariyah and Samar kissed his cheeks that they were relieved that all was well and that they had been able to speak again with their neighbours. He did not understand why Hallin grabbed and kissed his cheek as well, or Hallin’s father, or Hallin’s two sisters. Hallin’s mother had told him the Hahren did not like his family but she embraced him very tightly before going back upstairs while the rest of her family left. The sisters’ husbands also embraced and kissed his cheeks. He knew none of these people but there were many of them. They heard him tell his siblings that he would remain to help clean the mess his work had made in the kitchen, and proceeded to pounce upon him after his brother and sister had left.

Many people he did not know insisted on touching him in this overly familiar manner and he did not understand why. He had not been kissed in Vigil’s Keep where he had acted as Apothecary and assisted Vessa and Valora in their duties, and when he asked Jeevan if the boy had also been kissed in this manner he found his nephew was asleep with Dirthamen happily laying across his lap.

When most of the family had left he began to clean. Cups and bowls and spoons from ale and wine and curry and stew. More hot water to wash and rinse the dishes, the floor swept, the kitchen counter wiped down, the waste bucket emptied yet again and rinsed with more well water. He could not enter the birthroom to see the mess no doubt overwhelming the space, but scrubbed out the pots he had used and sought out the lard and oil to sooth his hands where they had begun to crack from hours of repeated exposure to the lye.

He was very tired and very sore throughout his body when husband and wife and daughter and grandmother and midwife all appeared slowly from upstairs. The birthmother was cradling her newborn in heavy swaddling, her face glowing but body clearly exhausted and face stressed from a day and night and dawn of labour. That she left now seemed unwise, but she was not truly walking: her husband was all but carrying her and he was too elated with her health and the infant to seem to notice the burden.

This picture of perfect, smiling happiness touched Neria with their laughter and their tears and their delight, and then the new family left through the bright morning snow for their home. The grandmother carried the baby, and the husband carried the wife, and when they were gone the house seemed quieter and colder for their passing. The door was closed to keep the house from losing all its warm air.

Neria’s smile cracked and she began to cry softly, and then rapidly, and she sank to her knees on the floor before Jylan had settled the broom against the counter and could reach her.

“It’s _clean?”_ She gasped behind her hands, her voice whittling and soft between cries. “My house is _clean?_ How is _my house clean? How long have you been here? How are you still here? Jeevan? Jeevan it’s over-?_ ”

“Jeevan is asleep,” he said quietly, kneeling next to her and extending his hand to rub the back of her shoulder and across her spine. It was where his own back ache began and perhaps the gesture would offer her comfort.

“I meant _you_ ,” she moaned behind her hands, bringing her knees together in front of her and tipping over until her head was against his shoulder. “It’s over- _it’s over._ She’s breathing- they’re both breathing; they’re happy; I didn’t need _any magic…”_ her voice dissolved into soft, hiccupping sobs and he did not move away from her.

“You are very tired, Neria, but should sit on a chair rather than the floor. Ariyah left the last of the food here for you and the fire is very warm: it will be easy to heat the curry if you are hungry.” She continued to cry and did not answer him, so he accepted this as a refusal of both points. As he doubted her comfort sitting on the cold floor and leaning so far to make contact with him, he acted as his experiences with his nieces and nephews had mandated. When distressed beyond the point of reason, it was socially acceptable to simply move an afflicted person for their own benefit.

“I- I couldn’t make _anything_ for anyone to eat and- and there was _no bread_ or _anything_ for them or- and I didn’t have _time to_ \- and then she was _bleeding_ and if I wasn’t _calm_ I’d make a _mistake_ and-” He moved from kneeling to sitting, and the hand touching her back slipped around to her waist and hip, his other hand reaching under the shoulder closest to him. He grabbed and pulled and shuffled her closer to him until her side was flush with his, and released without hurting her.

As expected she gave no negative reaction to the forced change. She dropped her hands from her face and slipped her arm around behind him, permitting her to twist closer and rub her face into his shoulder for comfort. Her eyes were tightly shut and leaking tears, and she did not calm as she wrapped her free arm around him to complete the hug. He settled the arm around her with his hand on her shoulder, and brushed the other along the arm holding his chest.

He was not alarmed by her behaviour for reasons beyond his own tranquility. She had not wept or collapsed or fallen to pieces during the labour or delivery, she had been smiling and calm when the family had come down the stairs. This was a physical response to exhaustion paired with an emotional release from intense stress and anxiety. Once she had expended her tears and sobbed to the extent her body required, she would calm and regain control of herself.

His only complaint was that she reeked strongly of incense and blood, and the most comfortable way for him to position his head brought his nose far too close to her hair and the unsettling stink of raw meat. Still, while it was unpleasant, he was able to make the conscious decision to remain in this position and stay with her as her cries began to settle down.

When her audible crying stopped, it was replaced by a deep beat in her chest and back that repeated many times, her lungs hiccupping harshly as she strangled the sobbing and sought to control it. He moved his hand from her shoulder up to brush her dirtied hair from her face, gathering it with his fingertips and drawing it behind one slender ear. Just as physical proximity and the weight of an embrace could prove calming, attention to the hair and scalp was also soothing. She calmed, slowly, down.

“…Are we friends?” she asked him quietly when she was able to take slow, deep breaths again.

“I would willingly consider us so.”

“That’s good.” She sniffled and rubbed her nose with the back of one hand, then her sleeve, but she did not lift her face from his shoulder. She returned her hand to him but her fingers grasped for the laces at the deep vee of his tunic. His hand settled at her wrist, then down until his fingers reached her elbow. The touch was only meant to strengthen the sense of proximity and anchor her attempts to calm down. “I wasn’t sure, with a Tranquil, where that line was.”

“When you healed Dirthamen’s knife wounds,” he clarified. “I am occasionally unable to distinguish between when your mannerisms towards me are ironic and playful or openly hostile, but you are more consistent towards the hound, and are overwhelmingly kind to him.”

“Because… he’s a dog?” she spoke in her rough, exhausted voice. “Dogs don’t understand sarcasm- _oh_ … Guide Me, I didn’t think of that when talking to you. Sarcasm, Tranquil; I’m _sorry_ …”

“I said occasionally, not consistently or frequently.” He said this and closed his eyes briefly, straightening his back where its aches had become more pronounced sitting here unsupported in the middle of the floor. He settled again and tilted his head to rest his cheek to her hair despite the smell of blood. “Your sarcasm conveys levity and humour and I will not discourage it.”

“I thought you said the rule for talking to a Tranquil was to always be direct and simple?”

“It is a guideline, yes, and certainly to be kept in mind when communication breaks down, but overall I will not discourage your sarcasm.” He felt her press her face closer to him briefly, but then her weight shifted and her legs moved, and she sat up. The arm around him dropped and the hand holding the front of his shift released. They pulled away from one another and the pleasant warmth faded, but so did the repulsive smell of blood.

“You…” where contact remained was the point where her hand had withdrawn only to catch his. She was holding very loosely, and Jylan adjusted his wrist so as to facilitate the hold. “You appreciate humour, without being able to find things funny?”

“I understand wit and clever remarks; they are pleasing traits to interact with.” She was very tired and emotionally exhausted, but her tight, pale face offered a weak smile to him.

“You find me pleasing?”

“If the opposite were true then I would not consider friendship between us to a viable option.”

“What do tranquil expect from those they call friends? How do you use the word _‘friendship’_?” Her question was direct and softly spoken, permitting him to sit and quietly consider the matter. It was a reasonable request and showed consideration for his difficulties with elaborate, expressive language.

She was patient, and waited for him to look at her again with his answer.

“I expect honesty, and to share an obligation of trust.” He was willing to explain what he meant by this, and as she drew her knees up and circled her arm around them, Neria remained focused on him and her hand continued to hold his. “My mabari is named for the Dalish God of Secrets, but I find secrets and hidden things to be excessively harmful and to promote cruelty and abuse. I am aware of and able to accept the distinction between a secret and a private story. I am hesitant to discuss the circumstances which brought me to the Rite of Tranquility, and I understand that you grow anxious and upset with the topic of the Dalish and your time with them. These are not secrets as they affect no one but the individual who knows the story. If I harboured intentions of revealing your apostasy to the city authorities, then that would be a secret. If you intended to harm my nephew or spread lies about my family in the alienage, then that would be a secret. If we are friends then I carry an expectation that we will respect one another’s privacy, but will not keep secrets. Is my understanding and expectation of friendship acceptable to you?”

“Yes,” she did not ponder the question, and he assumed that she had been listening closely to him as her attention had not visibly wavered. “Yes, I think I like your definition. So I’ve another question, Jeevan: where between honesty and trust do you end up spending all day, and night, and morning, in my house taking care of people you don’t know, cleaning up a mess you didn’t make?” She drew a quick breath before he could answer her and looked up, blinking rapidly and using her hand to rub and wipe away tears that quickly formed. She was very tired and her throat became thick with emotion. “I’m- _grateful_. I’m more thankful than I can say right now, but I’m tired and I just need to know. Why’d you stay? You made food, and you ran the whole house for me, and you brought your family to help too and- and I’m _so thankful_ , I am, but why?”

“Because you were in need, and I was capable of assisting you.”

“I should have- been able to handle it.”

“I do not see how, as most midwives work with a female apprentice of their craft. Jeevan is your magical apprentice, but I have not heard any expectation that he should become a healer or some manner of male-midwife. His attempts were genuine but undercut by a lack of understanding and training for the situation. If a social extension of my obligations as your neighbour and friend do not account for my efforts, then the professional expectation may suffice instead. It is understood that apothecaries will support the actions and duties of the surgeons, midwives, healers, and other craftsmen in their communities when their skills are relevant and attention required. You do not have an apprentice midwife, but you do have a neighbourhood chemist. Therefore: I stayed.”

She continued to rub her eyes, causing them to grow very red and not serving to slow the tears by any noticeable degree.

“I’m so tired- can I hug you? Or Dirth- I can hug Dirth instead, if that’s better?”

“Dirthamen is keeping Jeevan warm, I am an available candidate.” As soon as he spoke he knew his answer had been inappropriately worded. A simple _‘yes, you may’_ would have sufficed. An equally concise _‘yes, please’_ could have satisfied the request.

“I won’t make it awkward,” he did not know if her response was meant to be humorous after his own poorly worded answer but she embraced him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and settled against him, her cheek to his before she fell further to him and it became ear-to-ear instead. He was held tightly but was not pushed over or climbed onto, simply held, and he returned the embrace promptly as it was both warm and agreeable. The only unfortunate aspect yet again was the odour of the birthing room, but her hands reaching up to comb her fingers through the loose hair at his scalp effectively outweighed the one negative point.

She was slimmer than Ariyah, who had borne five children. She was sturdier than Saya, who was willowy and long. She was fuller, and softer, than An’eth who had been small and tough.

Neria began to cry again and he held her tighter, lifting one hand up between her shoulder blades and then stroking down with it. He repeated the gesture. The only sign of its affect was Neria taking a deep breath to calm down and then pressing her face down between her arm and his neck. He continued to stroke her back.

“I’m sorry for kissing you,” she mumbled to him through distressed tears. “I must have- seemed so _crazy_. I’m supposed to do this alone and- it was just so much all together, and then you handed me a miracle and I- I won’t do it again. I’m not- going to act like that. I’m sorry- but _thank you_. Thank you _so much_ , Jeevan, thank you…”

Jylan understood that if he kissed her now, be it on her lips, her cheek, her hand, or any place else, it would serve to promptly eliminate anxiety she felt over the sudden and forceful gesture made to him last night with the presentation of the snowdrop oil. But it would do more harm than good. He was tranquil, and such a reckless gesture would only lead to momentary reprieve before introducing unpleasant and difficult questions.

Temporary additional discomfort in the course of her already dire emotional and physical state was preferable to the potential termination of their newly confirmed friendship. That termination would most certainly occur if he implied the presence of feelings which did not exist. It had been so with An’eth. It had been so with Amara even before he had been made tranquil and those feelings had in fact existed.

He felt his arms loosen. Hers did the same. They withdrew from each other and to prevent either of her hands from clasping his again in such a fond manner, he clasped both of his together in front of him, elbows tucked, and averted his gaze to her shoulder.

“It is of no consequence.” He said, answering her apology. “I am your friend, and if you require further aid from me this morning, Neria, then I will assist presently before returning home to rest myself.”

“You should go,” she said, wiping away more stray tears which he did not watch this time, as he was looking at the tooled shoulder of her leather vest. “I need to clean up- clean myself up, I mean. I can’t go to bed like this.”

“I am capable of fetching water for you,”

“ _No,”_ she laughed fondly, and touched her hand to his shoulder, her fingers were warm. “You’re not my servant, I can fetch it myself. Thank you though, I really mean it, Jeevan.”

“You are welcome.” He did not know what else to say.

He gathered his cloak and as he had brought nothing else with him he departed the house after confirming that he would return again tomorrow to work at restoring what had been spent or used during the birth.  Dirthamen exhibited great care by only standing once Neria fetched a blanket for Jeevan, and the hound walked out of the house without leaping, barking, or bounding through the snow. Dirthamen was tired, Jylan had not paid the hound enough attention during the labour to know precisely what had fatigued him, but he was also tired.

“Uncle!” Raveena was the first to greet him when he returned home. She was angry and stomped her foot at him. “Uncle! The goat ate my doll! Uncle Rian says he can’t get it back! I want it back, uncle!”

The goat bleated stupidly from the kitchen.

“ _Veena_ ,” Rian complained from the table, head in his hand and quill tapping on his little book of numbers. “Your uncle is tired;  _everyone_  is tired. Come eat your lunch,  _dahlen_. First Day is only a week from now, so maybe you will get a new doll then.”

“I don’t want a new doll, I want  _my doll!_ ”

“Perhaps, in an hour,” Jylan said as he removed his cloak and Dirthamen shook the snow off his back. “The goat will give it back.”

There was a silent beat before Rian blustered and then put his head down laughing. Raveena gasped at his toilet talk, puffed out her cheeks and stood there holding her breath and stomping her feet.

The goat bleated again and continued chewing on Ariyah’s market basket.

It was a good day.

 


	39. Unheroic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You did that cool thing to soren and then dropped the plot??" I know, man. Life has been kicking my ass since Disgrace ended and Echoes is 95% stress-relief for me at this point. This is sadly the last Soren chapter for a while, because every time I try to initiate any of the plot-lines with him he just fizzles out fast and no one in his group can help me.
> 
> This chapter goes from right when the infant died (Satinalia) until the birth Jylan helped Neria with last chapter. Because Soren will not cooperate. Because Soren Surana is a dick ):

 

Very little about the journey to Vigil’s Keep went as it should have. The horses avoided injury. The storms kept most beasts and highwaymen at bay, and the ones who braved the icy downpours were easily brought down by a competent team of Grey Wardens. They did not run low of rations or coin. It was one of the worst journeys of Mahanon’s life.

There was no rhythm, no harmony. Grey Wardens often travelled as much and as far as the Dalish did, and Velanna herself was of the People just like he was, but their company could not come together in any meaningful way after the Circle. Who’s duty was it to strike the fire? Dig the latrine? Pitch the tents? Hobble the horses? Gather the firewood? Who again would undo each of those tasks in the morning? Their time, sloughing through the snow and foul sleet, was very poor.

Warden Howe tried. They were each aware of how he tried to keep order and he made sure that everything that needed to be done _got done_ , but he should not have had his hands on so many mediocre tasks. Mahanon should not have needed telling to gather the ropes to secure a canvas tarp across half their camp to shield them from rain and wind. Velanna had travelled too long with the People to require her husband prodding her to gather what dead wood was available for drying over magical flames.

Lady Morrigan had not had much care for the routine of camping on the way to Lake Calenhad, but she certainly had nothing to do with it now. Sephri could hardly be bothered from the Chasind woman’s side anymore than the Lady could stand to part from the Commander, rendering them a bloc of anxiety that moved only as a group, and required additional hovering from Velanna, Warden Howe, and Mahanon himself.

The Commander, in very short terms, did not fare well on the journey east.

After realizing and _accepting_ that he had been cut off from the Fade, Commander Surana made two attempts on his life in quick succession. For the first he took the dagger of his command and tried to cut his own throat with it, only for his own gorget and then Velanna’s panicked intervention to halt the dangerous flow of blood. The second, while recovering from the first, he tried to drink the lyrium still settled in his kit before Warden Howe saw and restrained him. Without spiritual access to the Fade, the processed lyrium had burnt deep, awful sores through his mouth. He’d vomited it up involuntarily before it could go further through him, but if he’d managed more than a mouthful then it would have actually killed him.

“ _Stop!_ Stop this- for _my sake,_ Soren, _stop..._ ” They restrained him, they took away his kit, his weapons, his gauntlets even- the sharp silverite tips were a danger. No weapons, not even his shield. They filled his mouth with elfroot because magic made the pain worse and he could not speak because of it, and they made him sit there and turned their backs when Lady Morrigan found her knees in front of him and made her plea. “Stop, _stop..._ We can fix this, it can be _reversed...”_

Lady Morrigan was not a woman accustomed to fear or having anything not go her way. Given her habit of coming and going from Vigil’s Keep on absent whims, the fact that she could have left at any moment from the Commander’s side was a spectre over their miserable party. Mahanon could not have a mind about it: what the Arl of Amaranthine did in his spare time was none of his business. Who the Warden Commander kept his apartments with was completely beyond the scope of his business, and Surana was about as El’vhen as the highway stones were mountains: it was _none of his business_.

But then the Tranquiled elf had to _say it_.

“You do not have to stay.” After his mouth recovered enough for him to speak, before they had even made it back to Highever Teyrnir, the mountains and Amaranthine still days and days ahead of them. “It would be better for you to leave, Morrigan.”

Where the hell were they supposed to go for this? Mahanon may have trusted Andruil but he wasn’t about to go storming off through a snowy, night-black forest with freezing sleet hammering their shelter just to give the Commander and his mistress privacy. Howe pretended to be dead asleep and Velanna stuck her nose deep into one of the books recovered from the Circle. Sephri could not have moved faster to go bother the horses, but Mahanon was stuck with his hands full of shorn wool, trying to mend the damage rent through his cloak by the effects of heavy rain and sharp ice. He was at the fire, they were all at the fire, and the Commander spoke to his mistress of frank things without a care for any of them.

“...why would I leave you now?” She asked him in an unbearably soft voice.

“Because I am useless to you, and burdensome.” Mahanon couldn’t remember which way his stitches had been going. He’d never heard Surana’s voice come out so _vague_ before. It sounded like he was commenting dolefully on the weather last week, or how he thought the snowdrops would bloom in the garden. “Say what you will of restoration, but even if it is successful I will not be the same as I was before. My magic may be erratic, or severely restricted, and the fear and anger and helplessness of such a reality will make me prone to lashing out and acting aggressively. I will not only be removed from power and authority, but also from my sense of self. You do not want to stay, therefore you should not.”

“Soren, I may not be _happy_ about anything that’s happened to you but I’m not about to _turn away_ from you either. I can handle your temper, I’ve handled worse.”

“By leaving, as you did during the Blight.” Mahanon did not want to be here he did not want to be here he _did not want to be here_. “You took magic and ritual from me because that was all you had wanted, the rest was an afterthought. You did not even stay to see if I survived the final blow or not, and you did not feel a change of heart strong enough to bring you back before or after I recovered. You turned away and you did not come back, it was I who broke my word and went after you. Even at the Eluvian: it was I who had to beg. I will not beg this time, Morrigan, and I have no magic or lore or power to seduce you back. All that is here for you is pain and you have no reason to endure it. Leave.”

“I will _not_ ,” she was going to cry and they were all going to be here for it.

“If not now, then when?” Surana asked her and Mahanon focused his gaze on the glowing white embers of the fire in front of him. He couldn’t stand the idea of looking at the other elf. He was crushing the poor woman’s heart and the fact that Mahanon was called to think of _Lady Morrigan_ as a _poor woman_ spoke surely enough of how wrong this was. “You are called Inheritor, and you have been coming and going from the chaos in Tevinter for months. We know who your mother is, and what she took from Kieran, and you will never be satisfied until you discover why. Thedas’ fate and yours are intrinsically tied together as tightly as the Veil is woven between worlds, we both know this, and we have both known this for years. Do not plead loyalty to what’s left of me when we both know that when the time comes you will choose that destiny over anything else. You will choose it over Kieran and you will choose it over yourself. This time the decision is already made: leave.”

“ _No._ ”

“I have always known that you would leave me again, Morrigan.” Why would he not let this _go?_ “Do so when it will not hurt me to lose you. Leave.”

“And let you _kill yourself_ when _I know_ you can come back!?” She jumped to her feet and screamed down at him, and none of the Wardens in the too-small camp even raised their eyes to watch her. “You are _mine_ and I will _bring you back!_ ”

He was quiet for a few precious moments after that, long enough for her scream to be swallowed up completely by the hiss of rain and sleet. Even with the fire, it was bitterly cold.

“...then your victory will be a hollow one,” he warned her, or patronized her, Mahanon didn’t want to know which it was. “No one could come back the same after this.”

Surana hurt his woman _deeply_ after that upset. Their progress slowed even more until it felt like they could barely make ten miles in a day, despite having done nearly three times that distance on the way out. They lacked their Commander’s snappy bluster, and no one could bear to _talk_ to anyone else as they rode in stifling, awful silence for hours of tedious grey road.

You weren’t supposed to just ride in _silence_ with Surana at the front. Mahanon had only been with the Wardens a year, and with Surana personally only a handful of times, but they all knew this. Within the Vigil he was Warden-Commander Surana, Archmage and Arl of Amaranthine, someone only to be disturbed if you had business, and answered promptly if you were summoned. Out on the road, however, he was the Warden On Point, he was the company’s primary mage and secondary combatant, meaning he would engage the enemy if he was presented with an opening but otherwise would focus on keeping his troops on their feet. Kinloch Hold had presented a party unbalanced by the number of mages, so he’d adapted to the situation and led from the front instead.

He had been different in the Circle because as soon as their boots hit the beach he’d gone from Warden to Archmage again. He’d frozen right up, stopped speaking, stopped communicating, stopped wanting anything to do with any of them if it wasn’t immediately relevant to them getting out of the tower as quickly as possible. That shift had been what threw them so harshly in the Harrowing Chamber, and made the demons waiting for them so much stronger and harder to take down. Surana had been so upset by the tower that the Fade had used his _own_ _fears_ against him.

Mahanon didn’t know the mages they’d fought and killed. He suspected Lady Morrigan had the best idea of who they had been, but how could he ask her?

 _‘Be a Keeper and ask’_ was sound advice when the wounds were cut through people you _knew_. Mahanon had spoken to An’eth many, many times before leaving for Kinloch Hold with Surana, An’eth was someone he _knew_. He was older than her, he was familiar to her the same way she was to him: a young hunter who had done wrong, who had only been on the cusp of understanding just _how wrong_ when the gathering party had caught his attention. An’eth he could make sit down and talk. Lady Morrigan, no so much.

It was Velanna who tried to ask, but it was a different question for a different person.

“Do you expect _me_ to leave too?” Velanna had been through... Mahanon couldn’t even begin to understand it. They shared the pain of lost Clan and the toxic, flouted hope that the Joining would have killed them when they took  the chalice to their lips, but the differences were still staggering. Splitting from her clan, leading them to their deaths, and abandoning the Wardens to live in the _deep roads?_ Mahanon could keep an open mind for a sister who’d lost her way, but Velanna had gone to extraordinary lengths in her waywardness.

“No.” But she had the gumption to take a very awkward question to Surana on the night they finally reached the hills and rough rocks of the mountains west of Amaranthine.

“I left once too,” she said quietly, prompting him. Lady Morrigan had vanished in the quiet night, the snow thick and heavy, but the sky clear and cold overhead. Surana had his place by the fire, his hound Dinah resting her muzzle on his lap. He looked at Velanna but it didn’t feel like he could really _see_ her.

“Are you making yourself sound like Morrigan?” He asked her outright, which wasn’t like him and it shook Velanna when he said it. “That is different. Morrigan was my lover who left me; you were someone I drove away all but on purpose.”

Warden Howe’s head twisted around to look straight at his Commander, but Surana didn’t acknowledge him. Sephri was asleep and Mahanon considered nudging her awake with his foot.

“What are you talking about?” Velanna asked him quietly.

“We did not get along because I was supposed to be your superior, but you frightened me.” Mahanon almost snuffed the fire with a thought. _This_ he wanted to hear and the crackling wood was _much too loud_.

“I _what?”_

“Intimidated.” Surana amended. “That’s the better word.” He gave a small tilt of his head, his vacant blue eyes watching her without focus. When he spoke again his words were so soft Mahanon almost didn’t catch them: “It’s strange... the chain is gone... he’s so quiet.”

Velanna was floored, Mahanon couldn’t do a damned thing about the way he was staring.

“Intimidated-?” She stumbled. “How? _You-?_ ” Her words refocused him, sort of.

“You are Dalish.” That was all he said, and apparently that meant more to him than to either of the Dalish elves in camp. Silence formed, and stretched, and he said nothing else. Finally, Velanna could take it no more and Mahanon was thankful for it; if she didn’t break the silence, then he would.

“You _hate_ the Dalish,” she told him. “You hate _me_.”

“Hate is easier to rationalize and address than fear.”

“What would _you_ have to be afraid of?”

“Your knowledge,” their Commander, one of the few elven heroes since Garahel had ended the Fourth Blight, answered her. “Your satisfaction with and sense of security in your identity. For knowing who you were and where you had come from, even if your future was uncertain. That you knew far more about why your people are as they are than I would ever understand. When I looked at you I was faced with my own insecurities and lack of origin. Like a mirror whose reflection I did not like, I turned you away from me so I would not have to deal with what the image meant.”

“That...” Velanna tried to speak and it petered out. She sat there in the snow under the star-dazzled sky, the orange and yellow of the fire throwing light across the snow piled around their camp. “That’s very self-aware of you, Commander.”

“I did not say I acted in ignorance of my own motivation,” he answered in the same easy, breathless voice. “This state has not changed my understanding, but I find myself lacking the compulsion to keep quiet. I was afraid of you, I pushed you away, I refused to speak with you of what disturbed me, and I only recognized the disservice when you vanished. That my efforts to find you were made in earnest does not change the fact that I was the one who rebuffed your efforts to make a connection.”

Quiet gathered between them again, and it was Mahanon’s turn to feel words bubbling up his throat. It wasn’t his place, the Commander was not someone he had to look out for. They weren’t kin or clan, but the younger elf had let himself come to the very edge of a curiosity Mahanon had buried since he’d first decided to stay in Vigil’s Keep rather than press on to Skyhold.

“Why do you hate the Dalish?” He heard himself ask from the fireside, and Surana looked at him along with a scolding hush from Velanna.

It wasn’t his place to ask but he asked it just the same. It was no secret. Surana respected only one Dalish and Keeper Lanaya was doubtless worthy of it, but the scorn he had for every other one of the People was uncalled for. He wouldn’t answer invitations from Lanaya’s clan or visit with them, while at the same time granting them safety and protection across his lands.

The Commander’s eyes went softly out of focus for a few moments, a vacancy Mahanon had seen pass behind the gaze of Warden Guerrin’s tranquil before he had been sent away. Instead of spit out some automatic and practiced dismissal about how _‘it doesn’t matter, I am Tranquil.’_ the way Ansera would have, Surana gave an answer.

“I envied them.” That… “I envied their sense of community and belonging. Elves in the cities and free lands live in squalor. Had I not been born a mage I would have grown up a labourer, or a servant, or perhaps died of some miserable want. Being taken to the Circle granted me an education and respect, but came with the shackles of the Chantry’s teachings on magic. The Dalish have no such tethers, although I am not ignorant of their persecution and the dangers of their lifestyle. The lot of others is always more appealing than your own.”

“But Lanaya’s been after you for _years_ to spend more time with her clan,” Velanna told him in a painful, hushed voice. “To learn about them, their ways, to connect with the People _properly_.”

“Accepting her offer would require admitting my own inadequacies,” Surana countered plainly. “I am elven, but Chantry-trained; a Grey Warden, but one of the country’s high nobility. The Arl of Amaranthine cannot go and live among the Dalish even for just a season. I am eccentric as far as my magic and Warden nature paint me to the rest of the country, but as I said: I am not ignorant of how the Dalish are viewed. It would have compromised my image. I was very proud.”

“You _are_ proud,” Velanna said, but Mahanon thought her tone unfair.

“I can’t feel it.” Surana spoke and then stopped. He was thinking again, and it took a long time. “The weight is gone. When I speak, I don’t hear anything whispering and chattering in the background. There’s nothing warning me to swallow words or blend my meaning with something else. I can’t feel the shackles, but instead of feeling free it just feels… wrong. Too light. Exposed. I don’t like it…” He lowered his gaze now, looking down at his hands where they were covered in simple leather gloves now, just barely enough to protect them from the settled winter cold. “I don’t want to be like this.”

“I thought Tranquil couldn’t want or like things?” Nathaniel asked quietly, but there was a deep hush over the camp now. It was such a modest whisper: _I don’t like it._ He sounded like a child. _I don’t want to be like this._

“Tranquil... were not permitted to want or to like things,” Surana clarified for them, still looking at his useless hands. “I feel... mired in emptiness. I am aware of what I do not like but I cannot... find the means to do anything about it. I have been hungry for hours but unable to say as much. Now it is relevant, an example of-”

“Maker’s Mercy, Soren-!” Nathaniel rolled to his feet and came to the fire, but Mahanon was closer and faster to fetch a bowl and scrape the bottom of the pot for the last of their runny winter meal. The food was dished and Nathaniel was the one to take it to their wounded Commander. Surana barely seemed interested in it when given the bowl. “I _thought_ your portions were too few, or too small. _Say something,_ it’s your camp!”

“...You and I both know that’s not true any more, Nathaniel.”

 “Nate, it’s _Nate_ when we’re out- Maker’s Breath, just _eat_.”

The nihilism did not get better as they reached the mountains and fought their way through to the tight and snowy pass. Tranquility was so much more than just losing one’s dreams and magic. Mahanon found himself silently pledging that he’d gladly give up _both_ aspects as long as it meant keeping everything else Surana had been forced to submit.

It was like the Warden Commander was asleep, that was what he likened it to as they crossed the mountains, finally entering the Arling of Amaranthine again. He said he felt like he was asleep, like he was going to wake up at any moment but at the same time- that time _itself_ was losing meaning.

“I say things, and then moments later I realize what it was I said.” He explained this to Mahanon, who did not want to say he was _intrigued_ by the condition, but there was just so much wrong with seeing _Surana_ rendered this way that he couldn’t ignore it or fight to put distance between them. Velanna could hardly keep her composure in front of him, Sephri was close to fighting Lady Morrigan outright if she so much as breathed a word about what the Tranquil’s lives had been like in the Circles. The Lady was fiercely protective, but she didn’t know what to do with her own anger and helplessness. Nathaniel was no mage. Mahanon... just wanted to talk to him?

“You mentioned the whispers being _gone?_ ” Mahanon asked his commander, the two of them sitting next to the fire together on another night, when the other Wardens had laid down for sleep. “But- why were their whispers at all? Were you hounded by many demons, Commander?”

“Only one,” he answered, “A pride demon I have known for years. That is not the voice I spoke of: Pride remained in the Fade and in my dreams and often with Duty to fight with and run up against. The voices... it’s an over simplification of experience and lessons. It is much more when you are about to do something and you hear your mentor’s voice telling you to do better, or to act otherwise.”

“So it’s just your mentor’s memory constantly checking you?” He asked, leaning his elbows on his knees and watching the younger elf sift through his quiet mind searching for the right words.

“It was, yes. I cannot hear him anymore.”

“Was it a comfort to you?” Surana blinked a few times, and his gaze rose up over the fire and across the black horizon.

“When you are fighting and your muscles begin to burn and ache, does that comfort you?” He asked, and then looked back at Mahanon with his empty gaze. “It hurts, and is irritating. It tells you you are in trouble because you are overextending yourself, but at the same time: the pain means you are still alive. You are working hard, but you are still working. Irving’s voice was like muscles burning, telling me always to think faster, to speak softer, and to cut deeper. That I could hear his voice meant I was still worth speaking to.”

With guidance and patience, Mahanon could justify what he was about to ask. He had been his Keeper’s Second, not First, and he’d let his own pride get in the way of his relationship with both Keeper Deshanna and Eliana. Still, he would never have described Deshanna’s voice as _painful.._.

“Did you love your mentor?”

“No.” Surana answered him too quickly for Mahanon to even regret the question. “I was afraid of him, the respect came later. I hungered for the power and prestige he could give me, and for the things he could teach and permit me to do. I was going to replace him, I was his young protégé who could lie to anyone about anything, cast any spell, recite any law, charm any visitor, and outright take anything I couldn’t earn from merit or guile. He was the only mage I had to fear, and I was afraid of him until he died.”

“But you were already an Archmage when your mentor died,” Mahanon pried, because Surana was already caught up in the quiet, breathless pause meaning he had not meant to say everything he’d just shared. He was asleep inside, and no matter what the Commander meant to say, he couldn’t filter a word of it. “You were a Hero and an Arl, how could you still be afraid of him?”

“Because I am no fool, Warden Lavellan.” Surana answered, it was like he was _compelled_ to answer. “A master can take years to carve and craft his greatest work, but he can also unmake it with a single blow. You don’t stop fearing the snake just because you know where it’s hiding. You never stop respecting the Fade just because you’ve mastered your little corner of it. Irving and I were more valuable to each other alive and on good terms than any other way, but reputations are fickle things. We could have become enemies, but our respective spheres were too distinct for us to conflict with each other. The Arl of Amaranthine had nothing to argue with the First Enchanter of Kinloch Hold, and I was too busy with the Wardens to play politics with the Fraternities or raise my voice over his during the Mages’ Conclaves. We had no reason to fight, so we did not.”

“Did you think of him, ever, as something of a father figure?”

“Irving was a human, Lavellan.” Surana rebuffed the idea completely. “He never let me forget how precarious my place in greater society was. Elven _and_ magi, in a world where either one will get you stoned or dragged to pieces depending on where you are. If Kieran has ever thought of me the way I thought of Irving, then I’ve failed the boy completely.”

“I meant not offense by my question, Commander.”

“I know you didn’t, but it was an ignorant thing to ask just the same, Warden.” Talks like this gave Mahanon a fair bit to reflect on. That reflection, however, always brought him back to a familiar topic.

The Commander thought he was going to die, if not by his own hand then from something far worse.

The mountains between Highever and Amaranthine were _difficult_ , but the Wardens managed. They survived the snow, and the ice, and the treacherously narrow road up and down from the pass which peaked between the two regions. On the other side of the mountains, it was a day’s hard ride back to Vigil’s Keep, but perhaps two in the snow and mud of the Arlings’ western roads.

Nathaniel opened himself up to the foul topic of Surana’s life all on his own. Had Deshanna been there, she would have whacked the Warden on the head for how he did it.

“Where do you think we should go?” He’d been leading them since the island and Mahanon had been well enough resolved to Nathaniel’s guiding hand keeping them moving, but this was a foolish mistake on the human’s part. He should have known Surana better than this.

“To Kal’Hirol,” their Commander said, and Mahanon could only close his eyes and consider if it would be worth the trouble to throw something at the senior warden for bringing this up. Keepers were supposed to lead, and Mahanon was no leader among the Wardens. Hahrens were meant to stop the Keeper from leading the Clan off a cliff, but that only worked if Howe was willing to listen.

“Why, so you can take your Calling in the Deep Roads there?” Creators Embrace Them, Howe.

“Yes.”

“Then we’re not going to Kal’Hirol.” What-? Did he think that would- _settle this?_

Surana had made no more attempts on his life, this was true, but the fact that he _had done so_ warranted a lighter hand. And more than that, he’d done it _twice_ on this journey alone- to ask their Commander’s opinion and then flatly reject it smacked of something Mahanon didn’t like and found he could not let go. In fact- _anger_.

It was hot around his throat and felt like it was steaming through his wet armour. Anger. Had he meant the question like some kind of joke? Velanna was either too far back to stop her _shem_ husband or just didn’t know better, but she should have known better. Mahanon had been Second, Velanna had been First and _he_ knew better.

Then why wasn’t he fucking acting like it? Keeper, Hahren, Warden- _do something_.

“Captain Howe,” Mahanon said, nudging his horse to carry ahead and come up abreast with Howe, leaving Surana behind to ride beside his Lady and Sephri. Howe looked at him as Mahanon’s horse fell in step, and he was just too irritated to mind himself. “What the hell was that?”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“Have a bit more respect for your friend,” Mahanon told him sharply. There were few and fragile years between himself and Howe in terms of age, but the years were still there and this _shem’len_ would listen. “Unless you want him taking off in the middle of the night.”

“He _won’t_ and you’ll _watch your tone_ , Corporal,” Nathaniel grumbled at him through clenched teeth. His eyes were sunken and tired, the weather and the company had worn him down to the bone. He wasn’t a talkative person, but he couldn’t be stalwart about _this_. Mahanon would follow him, yes, but he’d do his duty and make a damn fuss about the cliff fast approaching under their feet.

“Pull rank if you wish and put me in the stocks if you must,” Mahanon kept his spine straight in the saddle and worked his fingers down the Ironbark of his staff, the end of it anchored in his stirrup. “But if Surana’s decided Kal’Hirol is better than whatever he thinks is waiting for him in the Vigil, then open your eyes and be honest with yourself: when has the Commander let anyone lead him into something he didn’t like?”

“The Circle fucking Tower,” Howe bit back, but that wasn’t true.

“No, he led _us_ that time too.”

“What the fuck do you want me to say, Lavellan?” Nathaniel asked sharply, looking at him under the dripping cowl of his blue hood. “Lets all piss off to Kal’Hirol and wish the Hero of Ferelden happy hunting? When we’ve spent the last month listening to his wife talk herself hoarse knowing there’s a way to fix him? We are _not_ going to _Kal’Hirol!”_

“Then when we stop tonight we all need to face facts and accept that we _cannot_ go to Vigil’s Keep.”

Howe did something Mahanon had never seen from him before: the human warden kicked and threw his weight and confused his horse to the point where the mount shook its head and cantered sideways. Rather than hurt itself, the animal came to a firm halt because it didn’t know what its rider wanted. The human sat there, flustered and yanking on the reins, until he called a pathetic halt for them. The company stopped in the middle of an open road in the pouring winter rain dousing the grey countryside, and it was awful.

“We are _not_ going to _Kal’Hirol_.” Nathaniel spoke to him with water streaming down his nose and speckled across his thin cheeks, and Mahanon knew that under his own cloak his silverite was just as sodden and water-logged. The rain had not stopped since the mountains. They were Grey Wardens, but they were still freezing and hurting.

“We _cannot_ go to Vigil’s Keep,” Mahanon repeated himself. If they did, Surana would either kill or ruin himself. He had it in his head that something awful was waiting and damn it they owed him enough respect to just _listen_ to the only thing he found worth saying!

“Where the hell are we _supposed to go!?_ ” The captain shouted back at him. Fine, admit to being lost: knowing you didn’t have the answer was the first step to _finding_ it.

“Anywhere,” Mahanon answered, “as long as it’s safe for him and he agrees to go.”

“He’s the fucking _Arl,_ Lavellan!” Nathaniel dismounted so he could pace and move and use his limbs without setting his horse off any worse than he had already, stomping to Mahanon’s horse as he gave a much slower dismount. “We’re already overdue to get back to the Vigil, and Surana’s no Arl of Redcliffe who fucks off to Starkhaven for six out of every twelve months! He _runs_ Amaranthine, and he’s run it his way for ten damn years. His city and his Banns and their halls are all used to having the Arl only two days out of contact from them, and they’ll know something’s wrong if he stays away much longer than he has already!”

“Something _is_ wrong,” Mahanon told him sternly, because Nathaniel was acting like a young fool instead of a Senior Warden. “And things have been wrong before, and things will go wrong again- this is no worse, just different. Did Amaranthine freeze up and fall to pieces last winter when he emptied the Vigil in secret and spirited an entire army across the country? What about the five months he spent with his most trusted Wardens deep in the bowels of the Fereldan Deep Roads looking for the Architect’s secrets? He vanished for _years_ to raise his son with Lady Morrigan, and lo and behold, he still had an Arling to return to!”

“You’ve no idea the fight he left in the Landsmeet to make that happen!” Nathaniel yelled but his voice was weak and his conviction was flagging. He wasn’t arguing for anything, just arguing, just trying to keep in control of himself and the situation. Cliffs were appealing when everything else around you was fire. “This is different,” he said. “This time it’s _him._ ”

“The Arling doesn’t need to know that.” He just needed an alternative, and because Mahanon wasn’t losing his mind worrying over human Banns and human lands and human titles, he could think _for_ the Captain. “They just need to know something _somewhere_ has happened and that Surana cannot return to the Vigil or Amaranthine until it’s taken care of. When Lady Morrigan heals him, he can go home or send word saying otherwise. But for now? _‘Important business, very dire, company redirected.’_ That’s it, that’s all we have to say.”

 “Then where do we go?” Sephri asked, still mounted in the downpour, her cloak spilling sheets of water from its sopping hem, her voice raised so it would carry over the hiss and splatter of the rain. “The Amaranthine Banns will take us, even in confidence, but each has a household with servants who’ll talk eventually. We can’t camp and forage in this weather with our supplies either- we weren’t outfitted for deep winter.” This was sadly true, and their miserable state already showed it.

Their tents and canvas were for the rain and could handle snowfall, yes, but there just wasn’t enough to them to fortify for a longer stay in any one campground. They didn’t have enough blankets, no braziers for heating tents or extra materials or tools to fashion stronger shelters. Wardens buying supplies so close to Vigil’s Keep would create talk. Returning to the Vigil briefly, just to resupply from the Quartermaster, would be even more awkward: why would Surana send one or two or as many as four of his Wardens back without coming home himself to issue orders and make a final appearance? It wouldn’t be like him, and it would give away their position if they were close enough to resupply and yet too far for Surana to come home for a day and speak with his advisors and senior council before deploying himself to handle something.

They couldn’t go to the Banns, they couldn’t hold out in a village, they couldn’t very well hide in Amaranthine City either- the Tranquil would take them, but Wardens were supposed to stay within the Vigil, not live and wander the city streets. Could they _leave_ Surana with the Guildsmen?

“Commander,” it was worth it to ask, but it wasn’t easy for Mahanon to find his voice. Surana answered his rank with glazed eyes. “Would the Formari Guildsmen keep this secret?”

“No.” Oh, well then nevermind. “Owain would seek to induct me into the Guild and- as Warden Sephri has told me repeatedly, try to socialize me as one of the Tranquil. I would prefer Kal’Hirol to the added indignity of the Guildsmen.” When put that way, Mahanon couldn’t fault him.

“Denerim- either with the King’s protection or just hiding in House Surana?” Velanna asked, offering Surana’s own estate in the city to stay in.

“The _Queen,”_ Lady Morrigan countered in a dark voice. “At least the Amaranthine Banns would have a reason to keep it quiet, but in Denerim it is everyone we would want to keep the secret _from_ collected in a single city quarter. If you should open House Surana then the demands of court and high society would immediately follow, demands your lord is known to flourish with. Such estates can hardly be occupied in secret either- horses, footprints in the snow, extra food for meals. Denerim is a far cry from Val Royeaux, but it is still a Royal City and will gossip soon enough about Wardens squatting in their Commander’s garden.”

Not Denerim, not Amaranthine’s city or countryside. Not Vigil’s Keep, and doubtless not back to Highever- if the King couldn’t keep talk down then how would the Teyrn?

“ _Soldier’s Peak?_ ” Sephri pleaded now, “It’s been abandoned since the Orlesian Wardens disbanded and returned home last spring.”

“Lady Morrigan might be able to _fly_ there,” Nathaniel was already shaking his head, “But the pass to get from _west to east_ was nearly sealed with snow: and Soldier’s Peak’s junction is another day north through the mountains, nevermind the climb to reach the fortress itself. It’s abandoned, so no one’s been tending the wagon roads and the entire way will be ten feet under snow, hungry to take a whole horse and rider down any hidden ravine or steep mountainside. I don’t think six horses will make it.”

The talk was becoming desperate, Sephri’s mount wouldn’t stop shifting and shuffling its feet in the water.

“Lady Morrigan’s Mirror?” Velanna asked. Morrigan’s eyes were closed and she shook her head under her cloak.

“There is no way to reach it without going through the Vigil. If we simply forced our way through it would avoid confirming anything, but they will still know something is _wrong._ ” Mahanon could repeat himself and say that _of course_ they’d know something was wrong because _something was wrong_ , but he held off. He knew what she was trying to say. “Can you picture a party of Grey Wardens blustering through the entire fortress without your Commander raising his voice, even just to tell off whoever was in our way?”

“It’s the most viable option,” Mahanon said, just so they wouldn’t cast aside a bold rush through their own fortress too soon. It would create talk and rumours, yes, but like she’d said: it would confirm nothing.

“Orzammar is too far,” Nathaniel said just to be done with it. They would have to resupply before attempting the mountains into Highever again, and the same need to find better supplies would follow them even if they endured a week-long detour south into the snowy Bannorn to avoid the pass. “The right ship won’t ask questions but wherever we make port will still know there are Fereldan Grey Wardens on the move.” Which would intrigue any local authorities, nevermind the Vigil when they heard the Commander’s business was _so urgent_ that he’d left the country- but by mundane means rather than his mistress’ magic.

They were either ignoring or forgetting one more important possibility. One that might result in a few people knowing the truth- but having no where to spread the secret. People who lacked the credibility in Fereldan society to be believed even if they _did_ want it known that the Hero of Ferelden was tranquil. And honestly, Mahanon didn’t even think they’d feel that way anyways.

He tried to catch Velanna’s eye but she wouldn’t look at him. Morrigan and Nathaniel were talking about how quickly they could move from the Vigil’s first gate all the way to the fortress’ main hall, and then from there if they could get to the Commander’s apartments without being stopped.

Before they committed to running the Commander through his own keep without a word, Mahanon walked to where Surana was sitting atop his shivering, distressed horse. The younger elf was sitting there like he didn’t even feel the water filling his boots and soaking his skin, and he didn’t seem to be listening to the conversation anymore. His attention was roused by Mahanon’s presence, but he just stared at him, saying nothing.

“Kal’Hirol means dying without putting up a fight,” he said, skipping any pretense of asking permission to approach his superior. “But Vigil’s Keep will just reveal and humiliate you.” Mahanon said what they all knew but he wasn’t talking to the group now, he was speaking to the broken man above him

This was the elf who had single-handedly blown down the gates of Redcliffe castle. The elf who had strangled Arl Eamon of House Guerrin to death with white hot magic, and then been praised for it by the Arl’s own royal nephew. He’d stopped a Blight and _survived;_ he’d become a Commander and an Archmage before reaching twenty and five years; he was the first elf in Ferelden to claim a noble title by his own merit since the Fall of the Dales.

“You’ve never surrendered, Warden.” This elf, injured as he was, still deserved at least some of the respect he’d worked his entire life to cultivate. “And you’ve never let yourself walk into something you didn’t _know_ you could get yourself and your people out of. Take this either as words from one _El’vhen_ to another, or keep your pride and answer me as the battle-master who rallied four armies at Denerim. If you cannot go home and your people _won’t let_ you die, then come with me to the Wending Wood. The Dalish will protect you. Keeper Lanaya would never turn you away, and the Vigil will know not to question anything that takes _you_ , of all people, to visit the Clans.”

Surana listened to him. Or at least Mahanon thought he listened to him, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t say anything. He just- sat there.

He hated the Dalish, but he’d told them he didn’t _hate_ the Dalish.

“How long?” He didn’t say no. Mahanon wasn’t used to Surana’s voice being so- quiet.

“That depends on Lady Morrigan,” he answered, and it was the Lady who reached over from her own mount and tried to grasp Surana’s wrist. He turned his dull gaze from Mahanon to Morrigan and said nothing. He should have said _something._

“As soon as I know you are safe, I can find the Inquisitor.” Mahanon tried not to let the idea bother him, he failed. Finding Elaina and- seeing her again. No, he wouldn’t want to be taken along for that. As awful as Surana’s situation was, Mahanon would rather take him to Lanaya’s clan in the Wending Wood than go after his kinswoman. “Lanaya is as loyal to you as any of your Banns, Soren, it is not such an awful idea.”

“It avoids a spectacle at Vigil’s Keep,” Nathaniel admitted, but his voice was almost lost in the rain.

“I can deliver the message to the Wardens,” Sephri added. “When the company passes by to reach the Wending Wood, I can tell them short and sweet that something dire requires your attention with the Dalish. From there, if you’ll allow it, Commander, I can go to Cumberland.” _This_ prompted Surana to speak.

“To announce my affliction to the College would undo every effort made in Ferelden to keep it quiet.”

“Maker- _no_ ,” and Sephi was quick to swallow her words in the rain and correct herself. “But there’s an Enchanter from the White Spire who knows all that can be known about reversing the Rite, and if he’s still alive then he’s bound to either be in Cumberland or to have contact with the College. Lady Morrigan told me the two of you travelled with his mother during the Blight, so if I can convince him to come just because of that association- that his skills are needed in Amaranthine but not _why_...” Sephri’s voice began to taper off. This, at least, was something they could discuss later when they actually had some shelter from the pouring rain, but Surana still hadn’t ruled on which way they should go.

The Wending Wood was still east of them the same as Vigil’s Keep, but they needed an answer.

“Commander,” Mahanon prompted, because they couldn’t just _stand here_. “Sending Sephri for the Enchanter makes more sense than just relying on the Inquisitor alone, but we need to know what our destination is. Will you agree to come with me to the Dalish?”

Surana was looking at him with that vacant, detached gaze of his. It wasn’t right, seeing his face like that. It wasn’t right for him to just sit there like a statue with nothing to say or any side to take. Mahanon had followed him through the Fade and watched demons try to drown or shatter him only to come up short and be crushed in his wake- to have him so _absent_ now was... wrong.

If Elaina and the Cumberland enchanter couldn’t fix this, then they would have to let him go into the Deep Roads. You didn’t keep a horse or Halla alive when its leg was broken. You didn’t wield a sword that was rent. Surana didn’t deserve to have them forcing him to carry on like this if the only pieces left of him were all too aware of their own damaged state. If the King found out about this- if _Constable Oghren..._

“Commander,” Mahanon repeated again, because Surana was watching him but not speaking.

“ _Soren,_ ” Nathaniel pleaded. His voice took Surana’s gaze from Mahanon for a few moments, then he looked down at nothing in the rain. Finally, he spoke.

“I will permit a request to Keeper Lanaya for sanctuary.” _Good_ , then at least now they had a destination. Mahanon just had to pray that Andruil hadn’t moved the Clan yet to start heading south for the _Arlath’vhen_. “But if my presence is deemed burdensome or disruptive to the Clan, then I will not consent to remain with them.”

“I’m sure Keeper Lanaya will take her Clan’s needs fully into account before making a decision, Commander.” Mahanon said, speaking over the humbled comments that _no, of course not, of course the Dalish wouldn’t turn him away_. Surana didn’t need comfort, he needed _respect._ He’d said something and hadn’t Sephri been on them all for the last fortnight that _if a Tranquil says something, you have to answer them directly?_ “But if we stand here much longer we’ll be swimming to the Wending Wood. Captain, how much further do you think we’ll get today?”

“I’d say we’re almost as good sleeping here than anywhere else,” Nathaniel grumbled, but then nodded further down the eastern road they’d been travelling. “But we’ll try another five miles, see if there’s shelter or a way down from the highway to hide under it and get away from the wind. Don’t bother wringing out your socks tonight, this rain won’t quit till Wintersend.”

“Then we should get going,” Mahanon agreed. Like Nathaniel, he was quick and able to get back into the saddle, though what little heat the leather had held before was long gone now. The horses were not pleased for having been made to stop and start again like this, but as long as they didn’t go too fast too soon, they would endure.

They rode.

 


	40. First Day Feast

 

For most families, the celebrations and feasts of First Day happened on the Last Night of the previous year, but that did not suit the alienage. Many of the elves were servants, or the family of servants, who were required to be at work. They were clerks in small shops, runners for human professionals, labourers required to haul gifts and waste in and out of homes. The city of Gwaren celebrated the First Day by drinking to greet its dawn, the alienage celebrated on First Day itself, when the masters and employers were sleeping off their own holiday cheer.

On the First Day of 9:46, the goat stopped bleating because it was dead.

Its legs were rubbed with salt and hung in the larder, its shoulders and haunches set roasting over the fire for their family’s First Day dinner. Most of its insides were portioned, seasoned, and wrung into sausages by Ariyah and added to the pantry. The rest of the offal was served to Dirthamen who was soon gorged on the meat. Jylan claimed the horns and hooves, and Samar took the goat’s skin to a tanner just outside the alienage, trading the raw skin and some coin for soft cured hide Ariyah promised would make new gloves for Rian and new boots for Samar in the new year.

Saya delivered a red dress cut with white threads to the house for Ariyah, along with a new pen and ink-well for Rian, a fine knife for Samar, a wooden knight for Sanjay, a copper mirror for Raveena, a red hide ball for Tahir, and a string of glass beads for Anu. Dirthamen received a ram’s thigh bone and salivated over the treat for many hours. Jylan received a kiss on both cheeks, and her hand in his pocket deposited a small satchel, inside of which was a small vial half-full of glowing blue lyrium.

As the lyrium was intended as a secret, he was unable to ask her how she had acquired the expensive and substance until much later, and discovered that she had stolen it from a patron. This seemed an incredibly dangerous method of gift acquisition and he strongly discouraged her from stealing lyrium from anyone else ever again.

Samar gave Raveena a new doll and from Rian Sanjay received a new writing board with four sheets of paper pinned to it, which was not as good as a new toy but the boy seemed to understand the importance of the gesture. Tahir and Anu were given a set of painted wooden blocks to share.

The children received their new shirts, tunics, dresses, and scarves from- Jylan?

“You are incorrect, the clothing was-” Ariyah pinched him.

“ _You_ brought the wool,” she scolded him as Anu sat in his lap, Tahir forcing his little sister’s head through the sleeve of his sweater until Jylan lifted a hand to halt the well-meant attempt. “ _And_ the dye, _and_ thanks to you I don’t have to do other peoples’ washing anymore so I could actually sit and _make_ them.”

“But that does not make-” Saya, on his other side, also pinched him.

Zevran appeared briefly to deliver a new basket containing four bottles of wine for the family’s meal, but Samar took the assassin by the scruff when he turned to leave and dragged him inside. He could have resisted and fled if properly motivated, but relented and was given a seat at the fire. Samar did not settle by the warm blaze again even after opening the first of the wine bottles, and constantly marched from the kitchen to the front door and back again.

“Where the hell is Jenna?” He grumbled.

Jylan remembered his last sister and resolved not to say that he had forgotten her again. Since he had returned to Gwaren, he had not met her.

“No, no,” Rian said, “I spoke to her, she’s definitely coming but said it wouldn’t be until after dark.”

“ _Alone_?” Zevran asked,

“It _is_ after dark, and why would you-? Nevermind. I’ll go walk there and back,” Samar ultimately decided, then looked at Jylan. “Can I borrow Dirth?”

“Yes. Dirthamen,” the hound stood up with the ram bone still in his jaws, wagging his small tail until Jylan indicated his brother. The dog turned, then stopped and looked at him again while still holding the bone.

“Bring it,” he said. Dirthamen hung his head but then walked over and released the long thigh bone when he took it by the dry end. “Go with Samar, come back with Jenna.” He placed the bone down and leaned it against his chair leg where the hound could see it, and Dirthamen obeyed the command and followed Samar’s grumbling to the door-

“We’re here!” A young woman’s voice called from the threshold as soon as the door opened to let Samar out. The children jumped up shouting and shrieking in delight and ran for the door, and Dirthamen barked happily before his tail began to wag and his jaws opened with excitement. The dog came prancing back to Jylan and was gifted with the bone again.

Jenna was half Samar’s age and ten years younger than Jylan. She was not yet fully grown as a woman and entered the house in a blue velvet cape with red piping which indicated that it was house livery. It matched her wool skirt and top, with a vest of good leather which matched her stout shoes. Her mitten-clad hands were carrying a deep ceramic dish, which Samar took from her and set on the table before the rush of children could send Jenna toppling back into the snow.

She kissed each one and picked Anu up as she danced into the house, swinging the little girl with a laugh and spreading one arm out to catch Ariyah and hug her tightly, face to her sister’s shoulder.

“When did we get a dog?” She asked, setting Anu on the floor where the little girl stamped her feet and clapped her hands in delight. She gathered Rian in a tight hug and mussed his hair until Samar returned from the table, and for him she chose to jump with both arms up around his neck. He caught her with a laugh and she kicked her feet with more giggling.

Jeevan entered the house almost hesitantly, a grey scarf around his neck and a dark coat that was too big for him keeping the young mage protected from the snow. Neria was behind him again, and sought to nudge Jeevan through the door and perhaps escape back out into darkness before Ariyah caught her hand and drew the midwife inside, shutting out the cold. Neria had a large drawstring bag with her that she tried to hand to Jeevan, but the boy was distracted and could not take it. Sanjay jumped to his brother’s attention at once and dragged him to the fire, talking wildly and with more to say now than Jylan usually saw in a week. He showed his brother the toy knight, the new clothes and the writing board.

Jylan stood and abandoned his chair, having realized that with Zevran and Neria and Jenna they were short of seats. He found the corner between the bed and the hearth and folded his hands quietly.

When he looked back at the children, Sanjay had taken a piece of burnt wood from the edge of the fire and was holding his writing board on his knees, Jeevan absently flipping Tahir’s small body over and over in his lap as the smaller boy laughed. Sanjay’s hands shook, but he began printing and writing, and nothing but his older brother’s input could shake his focus.

“And I’ve been polishing silverware _all week_ but then the Chamberlain would not make up his _mind_ -” Jenna was saying now, tossing off her wool hat and revealing a thick wave of tangled, unbound black hair tamed only by a woven band behind her long ears and up over her head. After her great smile, her strongest feature were the thick black eyebrows over her dark lashes. She dropped her mittens on the floor and clasped Saya’s hands, the two of them quick to start spinning and laughing as she continued to speak. “ _You can leave in the morning_ ; _you can leave before tea_ ; _you can leave when the laundry is finished- oh, you are not doing the laundry this week? Messal is? Oh, then why are you still here, girl?_ Grey old man would lose his head if it weren’t attached!”

“What did you bring us to eat, girl?” Saya asked, reaching with both hands when the spinning stopped and pinching both of Jenna’s cheeks. “I see you almost never, and now you leave me famished! I want cookies, and honey, and sweet cream.”

“The cream is coming with the trunks of gold and six white horses you asked for, Mistress,” Jenna said in a voice too sweet and high to be sincere, and then clasped her skirts. She dropped a neat curtsey but did an odd kick with her foot before she did it again. “Six white horses and seven fancy groomsmen, with their vests cut with silver ribbons and bells on their heels.”

“Fancy yes, but are they _handsome?_ ” Saya asked and mimicked the next curtsey, and the kick, and the two walked around each other before dipping again. It took Jylan until now to realize his sisters were actually dancing, not simply imitating some kind of odd bird. “Seven men but only six horses?”

“The seventh one drives the coach! All rubies and copper plates,” Jenna laughed, “And mine was _very_ handsome, before the plague ate his nose off. Yours I fear was kicked by an ass and lost all his front teeth!”

“The Holy Day is _ruined_ ,” Saya moaned.

“It would be saved if you two would learn to save your dancing until _after_ _dinner_ ,” Ariyah scolded, but she did so while taking Raveena to her aunts and then clapped her hands sharply twice. All three sisters extended one hand until their fingertips were nearly touching, Raveena on her toes trying to copy them, and Samar began to clap his hands in a slow, steady rhythm as Rian dashed up the stairs saying something about _‘I’ll find it_ ’.

The women turned in a circle together, bending their knees when Samar clapped so they dipped and swung, pulling their arms and twisting their wrists about in smooth, even patterns. Once they settled on a basic sweep and step, they began to elaborate, turning, twisting, clapping, and most importantly: smiling.

Rian returned from upstairs brandishing a long stringed instrument. Samar laughed and told him to make sure it was tuned first. The boys looked up briefly before returning to their writing and Anu settled at her uncle’s knee to watch his dark fingers brush and stroke the instrument with great reverence.

“Goodwill on the First Day,” Neria spoke to him and Jylan looked where she was standing next to him now. She was still wearing her cloak and scarf and gloves, unlike Jeevan who was sitting on top of his stripped outerwear and Jenna who had tossed hers wherever she pleased. Zevran’s cloak was tossed over his chair and his pipe was smoking, hands clapping in time with Samar as the sisters laughed and twirled in their circle.

“And to you,” Jylan answered, inclining his head.

“Your family seems happy, have you said hello to your sister yet?”

“No.” He did not know why she asked him that, as she had arrived at the same time as Jenna. Neria clasped her hands behind her back and leaned on the wall behind them, inclining her head slowly towards Jylan’s engaged sisters.

“ _Maybe_ you should do that.”

“She is presently enjoying herself.” He said. “I understand from Rian that she lives across the city in the home of her employers.” And that the reason he had not met with her before tonight was the consuming nature of being a member of a serving household.

“A rich merchant, yes.” Neria nodded again. “Go talk to her.”

“She is still dancing.” To distract her would reduce the already small amount of time available to Jenna to see her sisters.

“Do _you_ dance?” Neria asked, and Rian managed to bring forth a tumble of musical notes from the instrument in his lap. It sounded familiar to Jylan at once, and his brother handled the neck of the instrument gracefully as he began plucking and stroking at the three strings to bring about a melody.

“No.” He answered her question.

“I thought not, but-” Her smile froze and she took a sharp breath through her teeth, clearly stuck for a moment before continuing to speak with her jaw clenched. “-that was a really bad jump. Here, this is for you: for goodwill.”

She opened the large drawstring bag she and Jeevan had brought with them, and pulled out a new satchel which she handed to him. The belly of the bag was made of soft brown canvas, at least two layers given the thickness and weight of it. The flap and harnessing straps were good quality leather, folded and stitched in the Dalish fashion and detailed with bursts of thread that were a warmer, softer colour and intentionally dyed to stand out in a leaf pattern. The satchel was not exceptionally large, but held enough space-

“I know you worry- sorry, I know you’re conscious about your tools being stolen or left behind when you work, but this should be large enough for you to bring at least a few of them with you. I tried to make it a little bigger than your notebook so that should fit easily as well. Or parcels you buy day-to-day? Things for Dirthamen?”

“It is a very practical size and crafted with noticeable skill and care. Thank you for it.” He had not prepared or purchased anything that could be considered a gift for her. He was aware of the gift-giving convention around the First Day but had not participated in any capacity since the Rite, and as his siblings had not exchanged gifts with each other except for Saya, he had not prepared anything for them either. He had not considered that anyone outside of the family would do so. “I do not have anything to give you in return, you have my apologies. Is there anything that you need or require?”

“No, _no_ , that’s alright.” She smiled and her reaction seemed genuine, but it did not alter the fact that he was holding the result of many hours’ labour and she had received nothing in return. “I’m just glad you find it suitable. Jeevan has a few things for his siblings and I made cookies for your sister, which… may be a little burnt.” She had given him a gift and he had nothing suitable to give her in return.

“Are you certain that there is nothing-?”

“-excuse me!” They both looked and found Jenna standing in front of them, with three cups of wine clutched together precariously. She was grinning widely at them and behind her, Rian was tuning and strumming the sitar in his lap, laughing as Zevran warned him not to snap the threads. Jenna looked at the midwife and indicated the wine, so Neria took the third and most unstable cup. “My sister says you two should stop flirting in the corner and the midwife should take her cloak and gloves off.” Oh. “You’re staying for dinner like I said, mistress, Goodwill to you, can I meet my brother now?”

“I was asking if-” Jylan was interrupted again.

“Oh- I wouldn’t flirt with him, Jenna, he’s tranquil. I know better.” Oh. That was Neria’s genuine, polite laugh. “But you’re right, I’ll let you two talk and see if Ariyah needs any help.” Jenna pulled her chin up tight with a smile and as Neria walked by the midwife kissed his sister’s cheek, pleasing her immensely.

He was tranquil, and while it was impossible for him to forget this it occasionally seemed as if others let it slip their minds. It was good that Neria was not so absent minded as that. It was good. It was good that she knew exactly how to treat him. It was good. He did not know how else her comment could be interpreted, save that it was good.

“Oh? Do you-?” Jenna was not a woman yet, she was too young for that. She was still very much a girl from her short stature and thin arms to the gawking and open way she grinned. She had Ariyah’s flatter, wider nose, and Rian’s round chin, and her glowing eyes had a sparkle despite their rich black colour under those dominating black brows of hers. “You’re making _puppy eyes_ , I didn’t know you _liked her_.”

“You are incorrect,” he moved to clasp his hands together but remembered the satchel, and settled for holding it with both hands now instead of just the one. “This is simply how my face is. I do not know what the others have told you of me but I understand that you were named Jenna after the Blight, and that you now work in one of the merchant houses as a live-in staff member.”

“I’m a kitchen girl!” She announced proudly, “I brought cake, do you like sweets? I made it this morning, and Samar says you drink wine so he poured this for you.” She held one of the cups of wine out to him, and he accepted it carefully. As she said nothing further to him but appeared eager to do so, he took a drink. She immediately chirped at him with: “So _you’re_ the brother that set all the darkspawn on fire when they tried to eat us?”

He finished his swallow of wine and did not have cause to comment on the flavour of it.

“I remember very little of the Blight or our lives before it.” He answered her question directly, so as not to bore her with his presence. “It has been suggested that the infliction of the brand on my forehead may have obscured such early memories. However, I have heard similar comments before. Yes, I believe I did use magic against the darkspawn.”

“And then that mark-?” She asked, frowning and pointing at his forehead directly. “It just fizzled it all out then?”

“It was the instrument which placed the brand and not the scar itself. I do not think the word _‘fizzle’_ is accurate, but ultimately yes: my magic and emotions are gone.”

“ _Creepy_.” Oh.

He dropped his gaze from her eyes down past her shoulder. It was true but often overlooked in this household that tranquil were unsettling.

“It is good that you are well and in good spirits for the First Day, and I offer you Goodwill in the new year. I will retire for the evening to prevent any further imposition on the festivities.” He nodded and turned to find the stairs.

“ _Uh-_ Samar!” Jenna called in an odd voice.

“ _Not so fast,_ little brother! _”_ When he reached the steps Samar grabbed him by the scruff, turned Jylan around, and walked him to the large table. The table was settled with heaping plates and bowls and platters of food. Samar pushed him into a chair and Jylan sat there, Saya dropping next to him and Samar keeping an arm on the back of his chair as he also sat. “You’ve been waiting all month to eat this goat, and you’re going to damn well eat it.”

Dinner had taken two days for Ariyah to complete, with moderate aid provided by Jylan but mostly reduced to frequent trips to market for scarce but important ingredients. The children sat on pillows and blankets on the floor by the fire with Jeevan assigned the task of portioning and dishing food for his siblings, who all chattered eagerly and were excited to touch and cuddle with their brother.

Dirthamen settled by the children and gnawed his ram bone, his belly still full of the offered goat, and his appetite quietly supplemented by handouts from the children whom he nudged ever closer to when he thought Jylan was not looking.

Samar sat at one end of the table with Ariyah at the other, flanked by Rian and Jenna. Saya and Zevran were in the middle spots, with Jylan and Neria at the ends next to Samar. There would have been room for Jeevan but not enough chairs, and has been previously observed, he was content and happy with his siblings.

The food was hot, and flavourful, and good. Rivaini flatbread and a heaping platter of heavily spiced rice and legumes rolled with turmeric and onions. Thick roasted goat shoulder and flanks cut with amber fat, salted and peppered and succulent. Buttered root vegetables tossed with rosemary and salt, wine muddled with mint and watered down for refreshment, fried sticks of cinnamon-spiced batter dipped in honey for dessert, with rolled bread filled with the last of the Amaranthine jams and rich cheese, and then a thick syrup-drizzled pound cake with nutmeg and lumps of candied fruit inside. Hot tea of jasmine flowers and cinnamon to settle the heavy meal. Small, dry, but faintly sweet cookies with burnt undersides, which Neria attempted to take back when she saw the other desserts and was embarrassed by her contribution to the table.

“I’m sorry- I should have known you’d have plenty of food. These are no good, I’ll just-”

“Nonsense, dear, they’re fine.” Ariyah waved a hand to stop her from collecting the cookies back into the small box many of them had crumbled in. Jylan took two of them from the plate and ate another one. With a mouthful of tea they were easier both to chew and to swallow.

“Don’t _force_ yourself to eat them,” Neria complained of him. “There’s more cake, _eat cake_. It’s soft and sweet and _perfect._ ”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Jenna purred at the compliments and refilled Jylan’s cup so he could drink more tea and clear his mouth.

“The cookies are sweet,” he said. He did not suggest that he was eating them because as a Tranquil he was indifferent to the flavour, texture, or quality of his food. He gave no indication of why at all, except that they were sweet. Everyone, himself included, was now full of the food presented on the table.

Rian retrieved the sitar from its spot against the wall, Zevran opened the last bottle of wine, Samar pulled the children on their blanket to clear space in the middle of the room. Jylan could only observe without the knowledge or emotional capacity to participate in the singing, chanting, clapping, and raucous noise his family made as they ushered the new year in with songs and laughter.

Saya and Jenna danced and sang with their hands clapping and movements in sync. Raveena and the other children would jump up and join their aunts with hands clasped in theirs and feet kicking. Samar led the songs with a loud voice when they were Rivaini, Rian was cherry-red from drink and nimbly handled the strings of the sitar, playing fast or slow for his siblings’ amusement and stomping his foot for a beat. When he played a song with a dance that was familiar to both Rivain and Antiva, Zevran could contain himself no longer and danced with each of Jylan’s sisters in open delight.

“You should have _seen_ ,” Samar told the assassin later with laughter and some traces of regret, “Before the _bullshit_ with Masao, before Mamae died, the whole alley where the midwife’s house is? Or all the space under the _Vhenadahl?_ All of that would be shovelled and packed down. Dancing, and ribbons, and music, and food, and fires _all night_. Like Satinalia? But _fun_. _Everyone_. _Every family_. It’s not just us: everyone knows the _etunashol’s_ a drunk, he’s a scrapper, he’s a _gambler_. _Everyone_ but Masao knows, or he pretends not to. So what does he do? _No festivals_. Just prayer nights, and chantry fundraising, and no dancing, and no drinking, just because _his nephew_ can’t handle himself. _Bah_ , I need more than wine.”

“Vodka?” Zevran suggested,

“ _Brandy_ ,” his brother growled, and went upstairs with the promise of returning with his own bottle.

“ _Good choice!”_ Arainai called after him with a laugh.

Samar had brandy hidden in his room, Rian had an unopened bottle of vodka, they finished the wine and the new alcohol was passed around, mixed with water or tea or taken with snow from outside. Ariyah became very giggly and tired, sitting on the floor with two of her children cuddled in her arms at any time, humming _‘my babies_ ’ fondly to them and kissing their hair. She giggled and wiggled her toes by the fire.

Saya dusted Jenna’s eyes with khol and kissed her cheeks to spread rouge and powder. They spread their skirts on the floor and took off their shoes, gossiping and laughing and taking handfuls of one another’s hair to begin spinning braids. Rian began to sway in his chair, humming and singing along with just himself and the sitar, and only abandoned the music when Samar pulled out a deck of cards.

“Cards!” Zevran shouted, gathering Neria in one arm and taking Jylan with the other. The midwife was very pink from drinking, confused and wide-eyed as she was brought to the half-cleared table by the assassin. “ _Cards!_ Have you ever played diamond back with your brother, Samar?”

“I have _not_ ,” Samar answered with a happy slur and a strange bobble back and forth of his head, “He says he doesn’t _play?_ ”

“He _lies!_ ” Zevran shouted, echoing the drunk lilt in Samar’s voice. “He’s a _liar_ , he’s _lying to you_. _This elf_ , cleared an _entire table_ of Grey Wardens last Wintersend at Caer Blackwood, in South Reach. Do you have any idea how much _money_ a Grey Warden, on a victory march home, has in his or her or their pockets at any one time?”

“Unlike the Wardens you are referring to,” Jylan interrupted, “I was not intoxicated last Wintersend, and at the conclusion of the game I returned the coin to them.”

“I _know_ you did,” Zevran told him with great drunken emotion. “And it still _pains my soul_ , and Hawke makes the _crabbiest little face_ , and the Arl laughs _so very much_.” A melancholy whine entered his voice and Zevran’s shoulders rolled down, he pouted.

“You are homesick, Master Arainai.”

“I am _very_ homesick, Master Ashera,” Zevran whined to him. “It’s not First Day without the Warden Commander getting impossibly drunk and making an ass of himself.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound like him,” Samar grumbled, shuffling the cards and then slapping the deck twice on the table with a loud crack. “Oi! Midwife, wake up! Card or no cards?”

Neria snorted and jerked awake where her head had fallen to rest on the table. She blinked wildly and stared at them in confusion, then focused on Jylan, and then reached across the table for him with both hands, completely folded over the wood.

“ _I know what I want-_ ” she mumbled, eyes wide and grasping fingers not satisfied until she had gathered Jylan’s hands in hers. Her touch was very warm even if her posture was concerning. “- _for First Day.”_

“You are drunk, Neria.”

“ _I am_ , and you can _enchant_ things, Jeevan, you can?”

“Yes.”

“I want a _good night’s sleep…_ ”

“Ah,” Zevran said with a sudden, sober, scowl.

“The _fuck_ does that-” Samar started.

“You desire a dream ward?” Jylan asked so as to clarify her request. He was not certain why the other two men had such a negative reaction to her request, but the mage sprawled over the table nodded eagerly at him.

“Little one. Stop dreams. Keeper had one.”

“Do you have a preferred medium?”

“One that works and you can find in winter.” Nearly all wood varieties were available during winter, but they would be dried and meant for burning or smoking. Still, it would not be so difficult to find freshly gathered lumber, or to find appropriate hide instead. An enchanted object either hung over a bed or worn by the sleeping mage to prevent their conscious mind from entering the Fade and becoming a target for restless demons. He had made one of poor quality for Connor before. He was competent to make a better one now.

“I will begin work tomorrow.”

“I’ll pay,” she whimpered, her voice soft and eyes beginning to droop again from the drink. “Lyrium’s expensive… enchanting’s so much _time_ …”

“I have sufficient lyrium, and one does not pay for gifts which they receive. I will begin work on it tomorrow.”

She did not answer him this time, just made a very pleased, high-pitched noise in her throat and nuzzled her head down on her arms, her hands still holding his.

“If you desire to return home, I am still sober and capable of walking you to your door.”

Another happy noise purred up her throat, but her hands grew slack moments later and he took her slumber as a refusal for his offer.

Zevran, Samar, and Jylan played three rounds of diamond back around Neria’s sleeping head, until Samar’s drunk hands dropped the cards mid-shuffle and both drunk elves decided it was too much work to pick them all up off the floor.

The evening was winding down and everyone, including himself, was very tired. Ariyah climbed very slowly, with some complaints but mostly giggles, into her bed by the fire and her children followed her, Tahir and Anu already hours asleep despite the noise and activity of the adults. Rian offered his bed to Saya and Jenna who tripped and giggled up the stairs to find the space, while Rian promptly fell asleep with Jeevan curled up next to him, the sitar still cradled in his lap on the floor.

Zevran claimed the blanket the children had eaten dinner on and laid down, asking idly if anyone had seen his pipe because he was most fond of it. His good mood was unaffected when he received no answer.

Jylan rubbed Neria’s back until she woke up, and provided her with fresh water to drink and assist her with the amount of alcohol in her blood. He refilled the cup twice as he tidied up the food and covered it to prevent any flies from finding it. He stoked the main fire and ensured there was nothing nearby to catch and burn by accident, and fixed the iron grate over it for the night to make sure nothing risked the safety of the household.

“…can’t hear the demons when you’re drunk…” Her grumbled admission seemed unintentional when he asked her if she wanted more water.

“You must ignore them.”

“Easy for _you_ to say… Easy when it’s… not _every night_.”

“Are you hounded by a particular demon?”

“ _Yep,”_ was her inebriated answer. Jylan had heard of such things before. Connor had described to him a pride demon which hounded the Warden Commander by name. Connor also believed the Nightmare which had attacked Redcliffe Castle during the war with Amaranthine had been drawn to his sister Rowan the same way.

“May I inquire as to its nature?”

“ _No._ ” Very well, then he would not inquire further.

Before she could fall asleep again, Jylan took her wrist and lifted her arm up around his shoulders. She did not protest and this made it easier to take her upstairs, to his room, where he turned down the quilt and comforter and-

“Woah _, woah-”_ she was lucid enough when he removed her boots to sit up briefly, but then dropped on her back with a soft whine. _“What are yo…?”_

“I will sleep elsewhere,” he informed her, realizing at this late moment that taking a drunk woman into a dark room with a bed in it without explaining himself first could easily prove frightening. He was tranquil, but still a male figure in an unfamiliar house. “There is a chamber pot on the other side of the bed; my sisters are in the room at the end of the hall.” He pulled and settled the blankets over her, but did not tuck or press them around her body. “If you desire protection, I can bring Dirthamen here to stay with you.”

In the dim light, Neria was very quiet for several moments before she answered in a small, shy whisper.

“Dirth would be good…”

 He left and found Dirthamen asleep and snoring with his bone still in his drooling jaws. He pet the dog’s head and neck until he woke up with a gentle startle, then was soothed right back down with the soft strokes.

Jylan roused him properly and sent him outside for a few moments to relieve him for the evening, then led the hound upstairs. He knelt at the doorway in the candlelit hall and rubbed the dog’s jowls and throat again, earning happy, relaxed pants from the animal before he indicated the familiar bedroom.

“Stay with Neria,” he instructed, and Dirthamen closed his mouth and tilted his head curiously. The dog stood and padded softly into the room, but then looked back at him. Dirthamen understood that it was Jylan’s room, but that Jylan was not coming to bed, and threatened to become distressed.

“Stay,” he repeated, and ignored the dejected look the dog tried to give him when he stood and left.

“You just gave up your bed to the midwife, didn’t you?” Samar asked with a breathless yawn, already half-up the stairs where the two of them met.

“Yes. I will sleep on the floor.”

“Nah, bunk with me.” Very well.

For a household full of five children, seven drunk elves, one Tranquil, and a disappointed mabari, the remaining hours of the night and much of the next morning passed very peacefully.

His brother woke up with a hangover, and no clarification of that statement was necessary as it applied equally to both of them. Samar grumbled and squinted at everything like he could not see or suspected the walls of theft. Rian cried and put a blanket over his head to hide from his headache. His sisters, all three, were also hungover. Ariyah gruffly refused to get out of bed. Saya demanded absolute silence and simply sat at the kitchen table with her head back, fingers pinching her forehead, with a damp rag over her eyes. Jenna crawled into bed next to Ariyah and whined. Zevran was not hungover at all until he opened the front door to check the morning snowfall, and recoiled from the brilliant light with both hands on the wall, eyes closed, and an old breath wheezing from his chest.

“ _Oh-_ elfroot, Jylan I beg you… _Jeevan_ \- braska!”

“Not so _loud…_ ” Saya hushed from her spot at the table.

Neria was hungover and moved very slowly for it, but was still awake and able to come downstairs. She grabbed Jylan by the arm where he was preparing a large pot of elfroot and willow bark for every other adult in the house to drink. She shook him until he looked at her.

“Tell. Dirth. I’m _sorry_.” Her eyes were very red and bloodshot, but she was lucid as well as very distressed. She remained barefoot.

“Why are you apologizing to the dog?”

“For not being _you_ ,” she moaned, “and not having you _around_. He was _so sad_ all night and every time I woke up he was staring at the door with his big brown eyes _waiting for you_ so please, please, _please_ , just make him happy again.”

“Although Dirthamen is bonded to me,” Jylan explained slowly, trying to accommodate her emotional state. “His health will not deteriorate for a single night spent in his normal bed while I am in another room. Mabari are highly intelligent and he knows that you are kind-hearted, Neria. He was attempting to manipulate you into summoning me back to comfort him just as he manipulates everyone else into feeding him extra meals. I apologize if his behaviour prevented you from sleeping properly.”

“ _No,_ ” she insisted, upsetting herself now to a point approaching tears. “I broke his _heart_ and-” the sound of claws scratching the stairs caught their attention, and Dirthamen-

-arrived on the main level with his short tail up, ears up and alert as he looked about at all the sleeping and quietly suffering family members. He opened his great jaws with a yawn which devolved into his pink tongue unrolling with happy panting. He saw Jylan and Neria standing by the heating pot of herbs and trotted over to them, sitting himself pleasantly at their feet with an adoring look.

Neria’s gasp was shrill and deeply offended.

“You- _liar!_ ” She hissed, and Dirthamen simply tilted his head before jumping up, tail wagging and paws spread, shoulders down for excited play. “No! No, you _lied to me_. You _actually_ -” Her anger was fueled primarily from embarrassment, and her utter shock at the duplicitous nature of the hound was both charming and an engaging distraction from Jylan’s morning duties.

“You should see-” Rian mumbled from under his blanket in the corner, “His ‘ _I haven’t eaten for a month and only your chicken pie will save me from wasting away to nothing, Rian’_ face. I haven’t had my lunch for two weeks.”

“I have instructed you to ignore his behaviour or it will not stop.” Jylan reminded him and Rian shook a hand out from under the blankets to make a rude gesture at him. It was amusing.

He served the hot headache and pain remedy to each member of the household as they woke up, and assisted the children in eating from the leftovers and then bundling on their coats and jackets to go run outside with their new clothes and toys and treasures to compare with the other neighbourhood children. Jeevan feigned sleep to remain in Ariyah’s embrace and she did not discourage her eldest from tricking his siblings in this manner.

As he did not have a hangover, Jylan considered this to be a pleasant morning. That changed when a heavy hand banged four times on the front door, silencing the quiet conversation in the main room and Zevran’s idle suggestions that he should leave.

Jeevan reached the door first, a point of gross negligence which prompted Jylan to try and head the young mage off, though he failed.

“Alright, boy, is there a _Jeevan Ashera_ in this house?” A gruff male voice spoke loudly from the threshold and Jeevan froze with a sudden tremble of terror. Jylan cut a hand across the boy’s chest to pull him back and stepped in front of the child.

“I am Jeevan Ashera,” He said to the human guardsman standing in the snow. There were three more men in red steel plates and chain mail behind him, with two dogs that did not seem large enough for mabari, and a cage.

“Well _good._ It’s like pulling apart a rat’s nest looking for the right house in this quarter.” The long-deferred reprisal from Hahren Masao had arrived. Jylan diverted his eyes to the city guard’s shoulder and inclined his head.

“Goodwill to you for the new year, lieutenant.” These men were not Templars, but the cage was not sized for a man. It was familiar but not from the Circles. It was resting in the back of a small wagon which must have struggled to pass down the snow-filled alley, and that would put the guards in a bitter mood. This was why Jeevan did not live with his family: his slumber could be watched over by Neria, and if the city authorities ever tried to take him they would not find him in the Ashera household. “How may I assist you this morning?”

“With putting an end to this fuss.” The guard huffed. “Have you a dog, elf?”

“Yes, ser.” This answer displeased the human, who rolled his head forward with a level glare. He then closed his eyes and gestured with one gauntlet-clad hand.

“Let’s see it.” Jylan nodded and looked back into the house.

Everyone was up.

“ _They’re city guards, you can’t-_ ” Rian was hissing to Zevran, who was holding a hand to one of his duelling blades and watching the door with alarming focus. “ _Please, please, don’t do anything- it’ll only bring more trouble- don’t- **please** -” _Zevran hushed him with a raised palm and fierce look.

Ariyah, Neria, and Saya were in the far corner away from the door crowding Jeevan between them. Saya was on her knees stroking her hands over and over again back through the frightened boy’s hair, speaking to him with low, firm words Jylan could not hear. Samar was hovering behind Jylan and could see out the door at the men, but showed no aggression.

“Come,” Jylan said, and Dirthamen answered the brief command by crossing the floor away from where Jenna had been nervously petting his head. The mabari did not bark or trot or look for approval and affection, he simply presented himself in the doorway next to Jylan’s legs.

One of the guardsmen laughed, another dropped his shoulders and grumbled skyward. The lieutenant in the doorway was shocked before he turned an incredulous look on Jylan and pointed at Dirthamen.

“You’ve any idea what kind of dog that is?” He asked.

“It is a mabari war-hound.”

“Where the _fuck_ did an elf get a mabari?”

The men were not here for the mage child. The men had been told to expect a mabari but had not believed the information. Jylan looked at the cage again. It was familiar. He had seen them in the kennels of House Guerrin and Vigils Keep.

These men were here for the dog.

“Answer me, elf!” The lieutenant barked. Dirthamen put his ears straight up and woofed in his throat.

“The mabari was awarded to me for my services to House Guerrin following the death of Disgraced Arl Eamon and the sacking of Redcliffe Castle.” He explained, hands clasped and elbows tucked tight to his sides, eyes down, voice low but clear. “I was contracted in service to the Arling of Amaranthine, and young Lady Rowan, Heir to House Guerrin and the Bannorn of Rainesfere, bequeathed the dog to me from her father’s kennels during the audit and evaluation of her family’s assets.”

“And I’m the Viscount of Kirkwall,” the guardsman announced in a sharp, angry voice. “You either come quietly, elf, or we drag you in irons.”

“Whatever the Hahren told you is a lie!” Samar shouted, coming to the door as Jylan felt words tumble out of his mouth.

“I have documents proving-” he was grabbed at the shoulder and the guard’s hand slammed his head into the door jamb. His vision blacked out and Jylan fell through into the cold snow.

Dirthamen snapped and jumped but the guard’s armour protected his arm from the crushing bite, the two smaller dogs released by their handlers to snap at the mabari’s legs and belly and force him to release the man and engage them. Dirthamen was larger and stronger, his claws ripping across one dog’s shoulder and neck before a rope landed and caught him around the neck, choking his heinous noises.

“Resisting the guard’s worth a cold night and a _beating,_ ” Jylan was grabbed as he tried to get to his knees, one hand protecting the throbbing welt on his head from the blow to the door. The hands grappled with his shirt, then snagged through his hair and wrenched him forward by the scalp.

He had voiced a protest and that counted as resistance and he was to be arrested and beaten. Not because he was tranquil, but because he was elven.  

The sound of steel and a naked sword pointed through the front door and silenced Rian and Samar’s yelling. One of their sisters screamed.

“In the name of Her Majesty Anora Mac Tir, Queen of Ferelden and Teyrna of Gwaren, this elf is accused and charged with theft from the kennels of the nobility!” The guardsman shouted at his family, “His crimes will be reported to Denerim and Amaranthine to determine from whence the hound was taken, and his sentence will be handed down by Bann Elmar of Gwaren.”

Jylan was dragged and tried to use his hands to keep his face from scraping the ground, the ice and snow of the alley frigid and cutting between his fingers and down his bare palms. He heard Dirthamen struggling and give a sharp yelp of pain when one of the other dogs bit deep into his shoulder, and a guard barked a sharp command for the hounds to heel and back down. The sound of ropes straining and knotting, two men and two dogs to take a struggling, frightened mabari into bonds of rope and iron.

“He has _papers­-_ ” Rian pleaded,

“Well where are they then?” His family would not know. He was the only one who did. “Hah! Wasting my day and _patience_ , you knife-ears. Take it before the Bann in a month when he has the time.”

He would be imprisoned for a month before trial. Without the documents or confirmation from Vigil’s Keep of Dirthamen’s status, the hound would be permanently removed from his custody. The forced separation would negatively impact Dirthamen’s health, and as it was the coldest part of winter the hound would potentially die.

The punishment for horse-theft was a whipping or a thief’s brand. The punishment for an Arl’s horse was the same but to a greater extent: more lashes, a larger burn. A mabari was prized more than a horse. If Dirthamen died from separation and the death was deemed Jylan’s fault then the punishment would rise further in severity and increase the chances of leaving him physically maimed or weakened to the point where he would become gravely ill or simply die from the abuse.

If he died without revealing the location or mechanism of the lock-box, his family would be bereft of the medicines, lyrium, and gold he still had from Amaranthine. He had the only key that would open it.

“ _Up,_ ” he felt hair rip from his scalp and struggled in the aggressive hold to find his footing, boots slipping on the packed ice. He grabbed the cord around his neck holding Amara’s amulet and the key and pulled as hard as he could, eyes closed. The guard tried to knock his hand down but he did not stop pulling on the cord. The man struck and then shoved him against the cart holding the cage and he heard a grunt of pain leave him at the bruising hit. He slipped to the ground and the cord finally snapped with a painful welt dug into the back of his neck.

He gathered the amulet, the copper key, and the cord in his hand and threw them past the guard’s knee towards the house. It came nowhere near to reaching the door, but that did not matter: the amulet was bright red, the rod was etched with lyrium. If one of the children did not find it, eventually Neria or Jeevan would hear the lyrium.

If either mage found the enchanted key, then they would know to search for the enchanted box both Zevran and Samar would be able to describe to them.

The other two guards dragged and shoved Dirthamen up a plank and into the cage, which closed with the heavy rattle of strong wood beams. The hound was muzzled and his legs shamefully roped, but did not calm for being in the cage: he clawed one of the guards who tried to snap a manacle around his paw, but was choked by the rope around his neck held by the other man. They managed to chain one of his legs and then abandoned the effort, and Dirthamen roared and slammed his shoulders into the bars, ripping at the metal floor under him with his claws. It was a cage made for a mabari and he would not be able to escape from it.

Jylan was dragged back to his feet, turned and shoved against the cart and his arms were painfully pulled behind him. The force was unnecessary and the iron rod and cuffs were rigid and cold around his wrists. He was wearing only his boots and a wool vest over his shirt and trousers, it had been very warm in the house and he had not been prepared to leave on any errands today.

“ _Any_ trouble,” the lieutenant was snapping and threatening his family still. “And I haul whoever starts it off where he’s going if we don’t just come back with oil and torches. Harbouring _thieves_ is exactly what folk like you get run out of good cities for! This is your _only warning_.”

He was grabbed and dragged and tried not to fall in the snow again as the lieutenant came back, inspected Dirthamen’s bonds, and spat in the snow. Jylan looked back at the house and saw Zevran and Rian standing there. He could hear Saya yelling and screeching at someone inside, and Jenna or Ariyah or Neria was sobbing loudly, he could not tell who.

It took two men to lift the posts at the front of the cart and start to drag its snow-clad wheels back up the alley. The lieutenant walked in front of them with Gwaren’s crest blazoned on his shield across his back. Jylan was behind the cart, arms bound behind his back, now very cold without cloak or scarf or gloves. His breaths were bright white in the sun and the two dogs that had attacked Dirthamen snapped at him when he did not walk quickly enough.

The last guard in the unit was behind him, and he would shove even when Jylan was walking at the same pace and close to the cart, simply to do so. When he grew tired of using his hands for the abuse, he drew a wooden cudgel from his belt and used the knobbed stick of heartwood to strike his arms and thighs. It was painful but also meant to be humiliating, and Jylan did not antagonize the man by explaining that there was no point in trying to embarrass him. To correct him would either embarrass the guard and cause more violence as a result of hurt pride, or it would reveal sadist tendencies. Either way, he would be further beaten.

When they entered the main square of the alienage they turned towards the gates, and a particularly smarting blow cut across the side of Jylan’s knee, causing it to bend mid-step, and with a gasp his legs buckled and he fell. He was hammered between his shoulders with the cudgel and sworn at for stopping, and the dogs growled and snapped without actually biting him. They were commanded not to bite, and though they were not as smart as mabari he considered them no threat to him. The cudgel was needlessly abusive.

“That poorly trained,” a reedy, aged voice spoke across the snow, “Half-starved creature, it _better off_ in your capable care, Lieutenant. _Perhaps_ , Maker Willing, the Bann’s kennelmaster will be able to undo some of the terrible damage.”

Hahren Masao’s voice paused the cart because the lieutenant chose to stop and look at the elven leader. Jylan reclaimed his feet despite another shove to make him walk again, and the Hahren turned his soft smile for the guardsmen into a scolding glare and finger-wag at Jylan.

In the cage, Dirthamen’s eyes were white, and he shook the cart with his growling when the Hahren came to stand directly in front of Jylan, clicking his tongue.

It was the Hahren’s fault that Dirthamen was in the cage; that his family was distressed and frightened; that silence had fallen over the children now hiding under the roots and snow-mounds under the _vhenadahl_. He had waited and he had brought these circumstances together with Jylan’s arms in irons behind his back, intentionally.

“Oh, _stranger_ , I hate to see such a young man so gone astray.” And now Jylan was being condescended to. “ _Theft_ , dear boy, cannot be tolerated in _any_ community, not even for bread, certainly never for a living creature.” Jylan was already going to prison for either a day or a month, and the measure of how he would be treated depending more-so on Dirthamen and the provision of the documents in the lock-box than his own actions at present. “I pray your time beyond the alienage will bring you more humility, and some gratitude for the-”

He spat in the Hahren’s open mouth.

The old elf slapped him, but was so distraught and horrified that it was merely a swiping blow of no consequence. The guard was too shocked to strike him.

“By your leave, _Hahren Etunashol_.” Jylan inclined his head, and turned to face the back of the cage again. The iron was very cold and beginning to grate across his exposed wrists.

The old man had a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with shocked disgust, and he swung his hand several times to wave them away, dismissing the guardsmen and the cage and Jylan all together. He stormed and kicked his way through the snow. Anyone who saw him from the windows and rooves of the alienage maintained the deep silence that had swallowed the square.

The guards exhaled and muttered quietly with surprise and derision before picking up the arms of the cart again. In his cage, Dirthamen’s eyes had regained their normal warm brown colour, and his body was twisted in its tight bonds to watch Jylan as he remained standing and focused on keeping his balance in the snow. He was very cold.

The cart lurched forward. The guard struck his back sharply with the rod to make him walk.

They left through the alienage gate.


	41. The Old Fort (NEW!! PLEASE READ)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found a big mistake in my folder for this story, where Number 38 was given to two chapters and totally threw off the order of the chapters!
> 
> I had Jylan arrested, and then posted *next* chapter instead of *this* chapter! The next chapter doesn't make *sense* without this one! Sorry!!
> 
> Guys, you gotta comment! I would've caught this weeks ago if anyone had said anything!

 

Compared to the likes of Vigil’s Keep or Redcliffe Castle, Gwaren’s old fort was both smaller and far less impressive. It was built on a hill, not a mountainside or hinterland cliff, just a simple hill overlooking the city’s main market. Castle Denerim dwarfed the old fort by several stories, with its main perimeter wall likely the same height as the fort’s tallest tower. The home of the Teyrna of Gwaren was not extravagant, but it was stalwart.

The city’s prison complex was not a dungeon or subterranean structure, but a narrow, two-story building with a simple roof and fixtures, built within the first wall of the old fort. It resembled a stable, for people, made of stone. The long walls of the building were made up of small stone block cells with heavy wooden doors and iron-barred windows looking down in to a central hall where there was a desk for processing prisoners, a fire pit for the guards, and nothing else.

Jylan’s cell wall was old, crumbling, and a portion at the seam between wall and roof was open to the winter air. The inside had a pile of half-melted snow skirting the wall, and the floor was entirely wet. He was very cold inside his cell, and the closest available source of light and heat was five feet from his wood-and-bar cell door: a torch which burned silently with the occasional ribbon of oily black smoke. There were four other prisoners in the complex, and two guards who rotated in shifts.

Two of the prisoners were dwarves, who were very angry at each other and kept in separate cells after starting a harsh First Day Feast brawl two days ago which had set an affluent merchant’s house on fire. Jylan knew this only because the pair argued about it constantly. Another was a human woman who shouted profanities and rattled her cell door, and was only calmed when eating or asleep. The fourth was another human, male, who made consistent and futile efforts to reach through his barred window and reach the handle of his cell.

All of these prisoners had been wise enough to be apprehended in their winter cloaks, jackets, scarves and gloves. Jylan was shivering fiercely after several hours in his cell. His station was open to the sky and it was excessively cold. The fire burning for the benefit of the soldiers in a stone pit in the middle of the stable-like building was unable to reach him with its warmth, or to warm his cell. When Jylan reached his hand through the barred window the air was noticeably warmer. However-

“ _Back inside!”_ as he was elven, the guards were less tolerant of his hands or gaze leaving the cell. He had to stand at the door in order to reach outside, which meant they could see his shadow, and if he did not return his hand to the proper side of the bars in time then they would strike his fingers and wrist with their cudgels.

It hurt to stand at the door, which was an additional level of discouragement for his efforts to reach the warmer air. His legs and flanks had been soundly beaten upon arrival at the fort. He had been told he would be beaten before leaving the alienage and had thus been mentally prepared for the event, but the manner of its occurrence had shaken his understanding of the matter. He had not been thrown to the ground, kicked and clobbered for supposedly resisting his arrest, but because upon his arrival at the fort in his iron bonds, Jylan had given commands to Dirthamen.

The hound did not have his capacity for calm and reason, and thus with his ill-fated introduction to the fort, he had grown wild and violent within the cage and his bonds. Certain that Dirthamen would hurt himself had he continued to throw himself at the bars and rip and pull his shackled leg with each attempt, Jylan had raised his voice and called the command to heel.

Dirthamen had obeyed. His strangled snaps and growls had melted into horrible cries and painful, yearning whines for release and comfort.

Jylan had been struck across the face with a cudgel for commanding the mabari. He had been kicked to the flagstone court with his arms still in their bonds and beaten. He had been told they would beat him. Mentally, he had been prepared for it.

He had not panicked or become afraid. He had not resisted, beyond trying to pull his knees to his chest and to hide his face against the ground. Despite his mental resolve however, he had still faced the very real possibility that the guards would kill him. No one would have stopped them if they had struck him with a knife or sword. Even a particularly strong and well-aimed blow from one of the cudgels used in the attack could have split his skull or cracked his neck and killed him.

When the beating ended he had been brought here, to this cell, and his bonds had been removed. It was possible that he had fallen asleep, or passed out from the pain of dozens of deep bruises forming in his flesh. He was not certain. He regained awareness because of the cold, and had since then not warmed up by much.

He should have been afraid, but he had not been.

He should still have been afraid, but he was not.

He was too sore for physical activity. Something was wrong with his left arm beginning at the elbow and threading down to his wrist and fingers. His legs could both bear weight, but his knees hurt excessively when he did so. If he could have stood up and performed jumping exercises as they had been taught in the Circle, or if he could have run in place, or simply performed a repeat of his daily push-ups and sit-ups, then he would have been much warmer.

It hurt far, far too much for him to move like that. When weighing the effect of being warm again versus the pain and potential for injury he faced if he moved excessively, Jylan chose to remain cold. When he had the strength for it he stood and placed his hands through the bars and tried to feel the warmer air. When the guards made their patrol and threatened his fingers with the cudgel, he withdrew and laid back down on the wet floor.

He was very cold. He held his hands under his arms for warmth, and when that no longer worked he rubbed them between his thighs, choosing sensation over the alarming pain in his left arm. The water and stone under him sucked more heat from his back and side and legs. The last time Jylan had been this cold, he had become gravely ill.

On that day, he was prepared to admit now, he had been wrong in his inaction. It would have been socially acceptable, although frowned upon by the Formari Guildsmen, had Jylan just decided to leave the Chantry’s requisition undelivered and returned to the workshop. It would have saved many days’ worth of anxiety and wasted labour.

Today there existed no such lapse in judgement for him to correct.

“ _Five minutes only_ ,” one of the guards spoke up outside. Jylan was very cold and forced himself to sit up. His shirt was wet from snowmelt and if he let it remain that way he would only increase his chances of-

“But _serrah_ , what _ever_ can I do with only _five teensy minutes?_ ” He knew that voice.

He tried to stand, but terrible pain flared up in his knee and with a shaken gasp Jylan released his weight back to the wet floor. He laid his hand on his knee. It was not broken, he knew it was not broken, merely bruised and very painful. It would bear weight if he forced it to do so.

“ _Jeevan?”_ Rian’s voice, but at a different door and not this one. He stood again and it hurt even more, but he braced his back on the cell door and used his left leg to carry more of his weight. He grasped the bars in the window with his right hand and pulled himself up. “ _Jeevan!_ ”

Two small hands in warm wool mittens wrapped around his chilled fingers. The hands were too small to be his brother’s, and it was Neria’s fair hair and worried eyes which he saw between the bars, the distant firelight making her hair and skin glow softly. It was good that she was warm and well-dressed for the weather.

“ _Syliase in her wisdom-_ ” Neria swore in a hushed whisper, and with a small hop she pushed both her arms through the window bars, taking Jylan’s cheeks in the soft cradle of the patterned white and brown wool. His eyes closed from relief, her mittens were very warm. “Your face- Jeevan you’re _freezing_.”

“I am very cold,” he answered.

“Maker have mercy-” Rian spoke and the two of them had to share the limited space at the window. His brother was very afraid and Jylan leaned closer to the door, bracing his weight on the wood so neither of them needed to reach so far. Rian’s touch pawed at his hair and his gloves were threadbare, ratty things which let his warm fingertips gently grasp one of Jylan’s ears. He did not understand the touch and felt tension briefly pass through his bruised chest and shoulders, but Rian’s touch was meant only to sooth, and began to rub warmth back into the length and tip of the ear in his grasp. “You’re bleeding- oh _Maker_ , how could the Hahren do this to you?”

Neria removed her hands and pulled off one of her mittens, reaching for his face again. He was not opposed to more contact until he saw pale blue light begin to glow next to his eye. He recoiled sharply and Rian released his ear with a startled gasp.

“Do not be foolish,” Jylan cautioned. It was dark in the cell and dim in the rest of the prison, the light of spell-casting would be easily noticed. “You are in the heart of the city’s administration and authority. If you fear the Hahren and his bias against your skills then do not act so rashly.” A blonde elven woman with magic would lead only to her door in the alienage, and Neria would either be run out of Gwaren or killed outright depending on the mood of the guards.

She scowled at him and her voice became heated.

“The _Hahren_ can come with whatever goons he wants,” she hissed. “He’s not going to get away with this, now _get over here_ and let me help you.”

“I am not dying for a few bruises,” he answered her and despite the warmth they both offered and the look of great pain on Rian’s face, he did not return to the door. It hurt to stand independently, but he refused to sit just yet. “If I become overwhelmed by pain then I will administer snow to numb the wound.” He could not presently feel any pain in his face, but that was likely due to the fact that all of him was experiencing some degree of pain.

“You can’t even _say that_ without shivering,” Neria cut back at him from the door, with a distressed catch in her voice she breathed more ire at him. “And those bastards chopped off your _hair?_ What _possible reason_ could they have for that?”

Jylan did not answer her because he did not immediately connect her words to their meaning. It was true he had a very pronounced headache, but until this moment he had not reached to the back of his head. He could not remember if he had braided his hair this morning or not as he had not woken up in his room with his comb available. It had been quiet and warm and pleasant until the knock on the door and it was possible he had not done so, but he simply could not remember.

It did not matter because as Neria accused, the length of his hair was gone. It was unevenly shorn away with parts along the sides remaining in long twisted curls, but the knife had been sharp enough to shave close to his head at the point where his hair had likely been grabbed, twisted, and then hacked at.

“Humiliation,” he answered her rhetorical question for the purpose behind the cut. “Though I am unaffected as it is simply hair. The march was meant to humiliate me, as was the beating, and when the Hahren spoke to me he made mention of humility. He is a very stupid elf who believes that he can do what the Templars could not, and frighten a Tranquil.”

“Well at least your sense of humour hasn’t frozen, brother,” Rian said quickly, waving his hands at Neria and hushing her frantically when she tried to answer Jylan’s comment. “Saya can only keep them busy for so long! Ask him your questions, Midwife! And Jeevan _come here_ , please, I don’t want these to get wet.”

Jylan answered his brother’s summons this time and the first thing Rian gave him through the bars was the pleated fox pelt which made up his scarf. Jylan accepted and wound the soft fur around his throat, then took the red wool tunic his brother stuffed between the bars. He put this on directly over the clothes he was already wearing, the short sleeves were not suited for his environment but the layer would help him regardless.

“Why are you holding your arm like that?” Neria asked him and pointed at his left side where, indeed, as he tried to pull on the gloves Rian passed him next, his fingers were not cooperating and his arm was aching fiercely.

“I do not believe that is the question Rian meant of you.” Neria dropped her voice to a bare, angry whisper.

“Watch me blow this door to pieces if you _don’t-_ ”

“I insist that you practice more caution.” He interrupted her reference to magic. “I am already imprisoned and there is no cause for you to join me here.”

“The key!” Rian cut in with a harsh whisper, the nerves getting the better of him as he was now trying, in vain, to fold and shove Jylan’s cloak in any way which would let the thick hide and wool through the narrow gap in the bars. “Maker’s Mercy, Surana, ask him about the damn key! It doesn’t work! How does it work, Jeevan, how do we open the damn thing?” This was an appropriate diversion.

“You found the copper key?” He asked, clarifying the matter.

“With your amulet, yes, of course we did,” Rian answered instead of Neria, but his brother made and repeated a sharp, panicked gesture to make her speak, waving his hand between her and the door. “Ask him!” Neria took a deep breath and shook her head at Rian, clearly annoyed with his behaviour, before she spoke to Jylan again.

“We found the panel under your bed, but there are so many combinations to the marks you etched into the wood- Jeevan was still trying when we left but we need to know the combination.”

“And you need to eat this,” Rian stuttered, pulling the cloak back out as it simply would not fit through the gap. This was unfortunate as the cloak would have given him something to huddle under. “Or Ariyah will have me hanged.” While the cloak did not fit, a tightly wrapped linen parcel came through easily, bound with twine and heavy with whatever Ariyah had packed inside.

“Thank you,” he said for the food, then answered Neria. “The panel is the constellation Bellitanus.”

Neria did not register this information. After a moment, her eyes widened, still without recognition.

“What the hell is Bellitanus?” She asked him. Rian’s nerves could not handle this and he spread his hands through his hair with a gasp, turning away with frantic pacing. While Jylan found this reaction excessive, it was not entirely unfounded.

“Do the Dalish not know the stars?” He asked her.

“ _Of course they know the stars!”_ She hissed back. “But I don’t know what a Bellitanus is!”

“The Maiden, the image of-”

“ _Just say maiden next time!_ ”

“So you know which one?” Rian asked her, coming back and pleading. “Can we go, and get the papers, and then come back tomorrow with them?” Neria turned on him shrewdly.

“What do you mean _tomorrow?_ ” She hissed.

“It’s nearly sunset,” Rian answered, fear quivering through his voice. “Even if you could _fly_ to the alienage and back, there’s no way we’ll get an audience with _anyone_ today, and maybe not tomorrow either.” Neria’s anger failed her, and Jylan saw her lingering grip on the window bar begin to tighten as Rian spoke. “We’re _elves_ , we go at the back of the queue and any human who comes after us gets put before us before we can see the Bann, or the Seneschal, or even the guards in charge running the line.” Here Rian, close to tears, turned to Jylan and placed both his hands on the bars, speaking only to him.

“Your charges probably haven’t even been written yet,” Rian was a clerk for a merchant company, not the city authorities, but he would still know how long these things took. “Let alone read by anyone inside, so no one but your guards and the ones who brought you in even know you’re here. Dirthamen they’ll know more about because he’s a mabari and they think he’s stolen- but the harbour’s frozen and its _weeks_ on foot to Denerim or Amaranthine.”

His brother reached through the bars with both hands and cupped Jylan’s face with them, trying to give both warmth and comfort.

“We’ll get your papers, all of them,” he promised. “Samar says you have letters of recommendation and everything the Vigil’s Kennelmaster gave you, so that will speed things up. But you’re going to be here tonight, and we’ll come back to see you tomorrow, I swear it, Jeevan, but it might be another night- I don’t know.”

“He can’t stay here-” Neria choked.

“The guards this morning stated it would be a month before the Bann could see to me,” Jylan said, placing one of his hands over Rian’s and letting the other touch Neria’s briefly- before she let go of the bar and snatched up his fingers in her woolen hold. “The sooner I am processed and judged by the authorities the better it will be for all involved, but I will not place my expectations as soon as tomorrow or the day after. You will worry regardless of what I say, Rian, because it is in your nature to do so, but I ask that you do not project fear or fragile hope onto me. I am tranquil and will not be terrorized or fall into despair. I am not indifferent to my situation, but I shall endure it.”

“Not for long,” his brother pledged, holding his face a little tighter for a few seconds. Rian’s jaws were clenched and he was wrestling for his composure. “Not for longer than you have to. We’ll get you home again I _swear it_.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s enough then,” a guard spoke up. Their time had expired and Rian’s hands withdrew from the cell. Warm torchlight spilled between the bars from the wavering flame held by the human. “Move along, you two.”

“But what about _me?_ ” Saya’s voice rose in soft, plithy protest. The guard balked and stared at her. She was walking beside him and now spun about in front of him, pouting with her long hair loose and beautiful down her back, a lock of it twisted around her finger. Rian was made to stumble and move out of the way with their approach, presumably because the guard had knocked at him with his cudgel, but the guard was stalled by Saya’s voice and Neria only moved aside, not completely away.

She had let go of Jylan’s hand and looked back through the cell window at him, his hand holding the cold iron and his shoulder braced to the door because his legs hurt.

“A-uhm, well-” the guard stumbled, still caught up in whatever flirtations and flattery Saya had used to distract him until now. His sister was both very beautiful and very charming. “Just- a look in and good bye.”

“ _Certainly_ no more than that,” she giggled playfully, picking up the front of her dress with its large embroidered flowers, her scarf a length of sheer saffron that did not seem thick or warm enough for the weather. Her face was painted and her eyes were lined, her lips luscious and painted softly pink. She wore her wool jacket from the alienage, long like Rian’s and in little better condition. “This is such a smelly, ugly place, serrah, you should not be made to stand guard in such conditions.”

The guard was simple-minded and flubbed at her flattery. Neria’s lips curled in anger but Rian pulled her away beyond the edge of the window so Jylan could no longer see her. Saya approached the door and pulled off her glove before slipping her hand through the window. When she was close enough that the guard could not see her face at all, her smile melted away and Saya let her eyes turn wide and watery, showing pain and fear.

Her sleeve caught on the bar and rode up, revealing the amber keepsake Jylan had given her. She had fastened it at its largest notch and it hung like a large bangle, slipping over her knuckles. She touched his face briefly, then his shoulder, and then dropped her hand within the cell as far as it would go.

The amber fell. Jylan caught it before it could clatter to the floor. The enchantment had been active not long ago because the stone was _warm_. His eyes closed from the physical relief of something small and warm and present within the cell.

“Alright- I am done here!” Saya announced, spinning away from him and rubbing her arms, shivering dramatically and covering her wrist before presumably pulling her glove back on. “This stinky, smelly, _yucky place!_ Rian, I want hot wine, you said we would go for lunch after this. If you will not take me then I will find a proper gentleman like Master Arainai instead! Did you always walk this slow? Did your feet freeze to the floor? Midwife, if you keep your face like that it will freeze in the snow! You will have wrinkles before you are a score and ten, and Rian’s hair will be whiter than snow. I want to see Jenna again, my sweet girl would not be such misery as either of-!”

Saya continued to talk and to chatter and to speak in her obnoxious way. Jylan could not see them from any angle at the window and finally retreated back to the floor. They left because their time was up and there would be many hours before they or anyone else from his family returned to see him again.

His body hurt immensely and his fingers were numb inside the gloves he had been given to wear. He chose the corner furthest from the gap in the ceiling and dug his heels into the uneven floor and rotted black remains of straw. The blanket meant to be his cot was soaked completely through and trapped under the ice and melt. He could not judge if he would be better off with no blanket or the wet one, but the sky through the hole was already turning a distinct dark grey colour. It would snow tonight.

He held the bundle of food from Ariyah, sniffing it with his cold-numb nose and catching the memory of the spices from last night’s feast. The rice and meat and something salted were all inside. He hid it behind him and clutched the keepsake with both hands, letting his eyes close.

The dungeons of Kinloch Hold had not been this cold. The tower had stood on an island in the middle of the lake, and from the cells under the main level the sound of the water had been terrifying and claustrophobic in the dark. Despite the terror of the tower’s underbelly, Jylan remembered being brought to the cells on many different occasions, though his memory of his infractions was partial.

His clearest memories were the deliberate ones, but even these blurred together due to their frequency.

He had climbed bookshelves in the library. He had jumped across desks in the lecture rooms. He had wasted, ruined, or otherwise exploded more jars and reagents than any other apprentice in the cohorts after the Blight- this, he remembered, had been a point of pride for him. He had once spoiled an entire batch of snowdrops just because he had not liked Enchanter Fisher. The old elf had frightened him, and Connor’s endless melancholy and self-defeating attitude had been infuriating, and Amara’s breathless ease with every subject had demeaned him. Having all three of them in the same room together for hours and hours every week had often been too much for Jylan’s patience and sense of ease to bear. Once he had learned where the line had lain between a boring night on a lonely stool or a terrifying night, stripped and splashed with water, he had exploited it repeatedly.

It had been left to the discretion of the Templars whether an Apprentice serving a punishment in the dungeons would receive dinner or not. If they took pity or had no personal grudge, then he would still receive a paltry dinner. A plate of hot gruel if they found his antics amusing, the same plate stone cold if it was not.

In prison, a cold husk of bread was dropped through the window bars. The woman in the cell next to his began to scream profanities and how her brother would hear of this and her uncle was a merchant of such-and-such credit, and the guard splashed her with water until her screaming stopped and broke down into miserable sobs. The two dwarves blamed each other for the lack of cheese or ale with the bread. The guards cudgelled the human man’s arm for making another failed attempt to release himself from his cell, and he did not receive his portion at all.

Jylan ate his bread in silence and rubbed the amber between his palms, awakening the enchantment and causing heat to flow between his fingers. It never became hot, but it was warm. The problem was the light which would prove impossible to explain if the guards saw the glow. He warmed one hand and touched it to his ears, one after the other, and his nose, and when he heard the guards walking in their patrol he stuffed the keepsake down into his boot.

When he felt hunger pains, he ate the cold rice and beans from the parcel Rian had given him, and stopped when the pain did. Rian had said he would come back tomorrow, but Jylan would not risk starving himself if that did not come to pass.

It began to snow.

Even with the keepsake, he began to shiver. There was no comfortable position to lay in: if he curled his body to the wall, then all of his bruises hurt. If he laid down flat, he lost too much heat and shivered to the point where he felt himself losing his breath. The stones reeked of urine when they smelled of anything except cold, and he could not tell where other prisoners before him had fouled the cell because it was too dark, and the smell seemed to come from everywhere.

He remembered Neria’s claims about his face, and removed one glove to check himself for injuries. He knew his face hurt, but everything hurt. He found a wide gash under his right eye which stung fiercely when probed. The skin was raw. Without magic it would require stitches. If he did not receive them, then the scar would be garish. He rolled onto his other side so the wound would not touch the floor.

Sleep took him hesitantly, and did not hold him deeply. He thought of dreaming for the first time in years.

Unlike magic, which had left a silence and a stillness in him, and unlike emotion, which left its impact every time another person tried to meet with him, dreams were easier to ignore the absence of. Not even mages dreamed every night, and not every dream automatically meant lucid wanderings of the Fade. Every dream was a reflection of the Fade, but that did not make them all dangerous.

Tranquil did not dream. They could feel rested, and wake up warm and comfortable and unmotivated to move from that state into proper activity, but they did not dream. Jylan had not woken up with the fog of moving pictures behind his eyes since the Rite. He had received no visions, heard no whispers, thought of nothing between sleeping and waking, and been carried off by no wonders or doubts or fantasies.

Tonight he thought of dreaming. He was very cold, and in great pain, and he took the thought of dreaming and turned it over and over in his mind. It would have been of some relief to close his eyes and take himself back to his family’s table laid out with hot food and good wine and laughing company. It would have eased the burden of his situation to pretend for several quiet hours to be back in the orderly but safe structure of Connor’s workshop with the boiling pot. To lose himself in the details, not due to desire or vanity or selfishness or fascination, of a woman’s warm touch and embrace.

To walk through such topics while awake made them forced, jarring, and left him colder than when he began. To simply- pretend- was hard. He was wasting mental energy but he had no alternative uses. He could either lay quietly with no thoughts, or lay quietly with distractions.

Jasmine tea and dry, flavourless cookies which cracked and crumbled into choking powder when eaten.

One. Three. Five. Seven. Eleven. Cardinal values with associated forms, sounds he could no longer hear, and power he could no longer touch. He traced them on a lump of ice with one fingertip.

Raveena would be disappointed to see his hair cut off. Sanjay would be angry Dirthamen had been taken away. Anu would look for him to read to her. Tahir would cry if no one paid enough attention to him. Jeevan would not have his supplementary lessons until Jylan was released.

Thirteen. Seventeen. Nineteen. Twenty-three. Twenty-nine.

He had not begun the dream ward for Neria like he had promised. He would craft it from hazel wood, or elm. Oak would always be a safe and suitable wood, but elm had even, smoother rings. He had not clarified with her if she wanted a ward hung on her wall or kept under her mattress, or an amulet she would wear at all times. She would be understanding of the circumstances, but disappointed none the less by the delay in production.

Thirty-one. Thirty-seven. Forty-one. Forty-three. Forty-seven.

His family could continue to collect his severance pay from Vigil’s Keep until Cloudreach, the start of summer. He would be released long before then and able to return to work. He would not die here, he would endure the situation. He would establish some means of communicating the intolerable behaviour of the Hahren to both the man and likely the alienage at large.

Fifty-three. Fifty-nine. Sixty-one. Sixty-seven. Seventy-one.

It was plausible that Dirthamen would die if his trial took a month to pass.

Seventy-three. Seventy-nine. Eighty-three. Eighty-nine. Ninety-seven.

He woke up with locks of his hair frozen to the floor, and his body in screaming pain from the bruises that had settled in the cold, cold night. His left arm was agonizingly stiff, and he could not bear to straighten the limb out or move any part of his hand but his thumb and index finger. The woman in the cell next to his was yelling profanities and abuse again, and that was what woke him up.

“ _You’re keeping my uncle from me! His associates will hear about this! That knife ear has a parade and **I** -”_

“ _Shut up!_ ” the guard shouted, and there came the sound of a cudgel rattling against window bars to scare the woman back from her screaming.

“It is unfortunate company you are made to keep in the new year, Master Ashera.” Jylan was sitting on the floor of his cell and looked up. There was daylight, and more importantly: a familiar face gazing down through the window bars of his cell door. His gaze was guarded and cold, the black trio of lines tattooed down the side of his face standing dark against his winter-washed skin. His lips were twisted in distaste behind the bars.

“Master Arainai,” Jylan spoke, but when he began to stand up the other elf at the door showed a palm.

“Before you do that, are you injured?”

“Yes.”

“Then do not stress yourself. Your accommodations are clearly lacking.”

“It is a prison cell.”

“You have frost on your clothes,” the assassin hummed in a low voice. “In this bitter southern weather, it is a death trap.”

“I have no present recourse but to endure it.”

Zevran did not answer his comment, he merely stood there in frosty, judging silence. Jylan was uncertain where the assassin’s ire was directed because Jylan himself was not at fault for his situation in any capacity he could be certain of. He had not stolen Dirthamen and he had not antagonized the Hahren after assisting in running the Masaos out of his family’s home. This situation was not his fault.

“I have an important question to ask you,” Zevran stated in a low voice. “And I doubt I will have peace with this matter until I hear you answer it for certain.”

“If I am able, then I will do so.”

“What is your life in Gwaren worth to you?”

“I do not understand the question.”

Zevran was quiet, but not angry or hateful. He remained distant and turned his gaze to the snow which had piled up high against the wall and the ice which had transformed the cell floor from a wet wash into a slippery hazard everywhere save the place Jylan had laid down all night.

“I have spoken with Formari Cyril twice since yesterday,” the assassin said. “She has taken employment in her Guild’s name in service of the Bann and Her Majesty Queen Anora, and she knows you are imprisoned here.”

Jylan did not respond as he had not yet heard a question. Therefore, Zevran continued.

“Your treatment yesterday was not unexpected for an elf in an alienage, but I am not the sort of elf who is accustomed to it personally: not for a very, _very_ long time at least.” Something hateful did cross through Zevran’s eyes now, but it was directed at the snow, and was drawn back in when he looked at Jylan again, sitting on the cell floor. “I could have prevented your assault and your arrest, but to kill city guards would have brought more of them, and caused a panic in the neighbourhood. The only worthwhile solution to such a massacre and the threats that would follow your family would have been to take you with me and flee the city. With your credentials you could find work in Highever or Denerim very easily, but you would be apart from your family. I could not make such a choice for you yesterday without knowing your mind. You are tranquil, Master Jeevan Ashera, but would you have preferred it if I had acted in your defense yesterday morning, rather than stood back and watched the violence unfold?”

It was a question which required consideration on multiple points.

“Were any members of my family injured yesterday during the course of my arrest?” He had heard a scream.

“None.” Zevran answered in a stiff voice. “They were frightened and horrified, certainly, but understand that had a blade or fist come close enough to actually harm any of them then that would have made the final decision for me.”

“I understand. With you here and Dirthamen in custody, is my family in immediate danger of further harassment from the Hahren?”

“They are in danger in so much as there as nothing to stop him from _trying,_ but I doubt he will succeed.” Zevran’s comments were thoughtful in a way which suggested there was more. All he needed was Jylan’s silence before it all came out at once: “The guards were a spectacle and this is the second time blood has been shed on the Ashera Family’s doorstep in a single season. Your neighbours have broken their silence: they are afraid of the guards, but more so horrified that it was their Hahren who brought them into the quarter.”

“Your exchange had witnesses, Jylan,” Zevran continued. “And you are better known than I think either of us realized. If Masao will attack and arrest a man as unassuming and quietly helpful as you, then what will become of the rest? You recall the Serras family whose baby girl was born last month? Samar’s friend Hallin and his brothers are standing guard on your family’s doorstep. The grandfather whose men you hired and paid well to fix the house had some sort of meeting-gone-wrong with Masao which resulted in the two men screaming and breaking their friendship, which is to say nothing of the workmen themselves who need Neria to have your potions and medicines to keep their women and children safe. Every mother and grandmother in the alienage knows Dirthamen and his knack for keeping their smallest and youngest out of trouble in the snow, and they are as angry as their children are distraught. I would say the alienage is near to rioting, but that makes it sound like a bad thing.”

“Then my family is safe?”

“Your family has allies, yes.”

“Were Neria and Rian able to unlock the panel under my bed last night?”

“Yes,” at last, brief though it was, Zevran’s face warmed and he spoke with a smile. “Although you did not give them similar instructions for the lock-box itself. It is good that Samar was able to inform us that it was made for Lawrence Garavel, or else your nephew and the midwife would still be sitting on the floor knocking the rod on those lovely carvings of yours.”

“I am not certain why I neglected to tell them the combination, it-” Jylan began to explain himself but Zevran showed him a hand again.

“You have been through _quite_ _enough_ , I should think.” Zevran shook his head and then smiled. “Garevel was a Knight, he is a servant of the Arling of Amaranthine, and he is well known for that massive ledger of his. The sword and shield, the bear, and the book on the top panels lit up beautifully once Neria understood the symbolism; she is sharp like her brother.”

“With all you have told me, my answer to your question is no, I would not have preferred your intervention yesterday.” The assassin gave a solemn nod, but it was not clear if this answer pleased or hurt him. “The guards were heavy-handed and violent, but ultimately their presence in the alienage was the fault of the Hahren, who stopped them in the square and mocked me to no effect. If Dirthamen was not a mabari, I believe from their attitude at the opening of our conversation that they would have simply laughed and left in peace. I am familiar with the high tempers which spark when a mabari is seen in the presence of an undeserving elven master.”

“You are anything but undeserving of him.”

“You would have killed four men who were merely pawns of the Hahren,” Jylan continued, “and perhaps more as we made our escape from the city. With matters as they are, I am the only wounded party and my family will still see me returned once the Bann has time to review the papers and sees that Dirthamen is rightly mine. There will be no funerals for any family, human or elven.”

“That is a strangely charitable view coming from a man whose face is still bloodied from their abuse.” Zevran stated in a low voice, but then his eyes softened and he shook his head. “Maker, but you do look strange with short hair… Come, I know I told you to stay down there but I am of far more use to you if you can rise to the window.”

He made two attempts to stand properly before he was able to overcome the screaming pain in his cold legs. The amber was hidden in his trouser pocket as he took care crossing the thin sheen of ice across the step between his corner and the door.

“Show me your hand, the wounded one.” He removed his glove and there were no bruises on his wrist or fingers, but the pain was intense. “It may be a fracture in your arm or the elbow itself, we will need to get you out of this cell before Neria or myself can help you. Lean as close as you can to the bars: if that wound on your face becomes hot and white, it could kill you.”

He leaned as instructed and brought his temple to rest against the door. An astringent of witch hazel was dabbed onto a fabric square and Zevran reached through the bars to hold his head steady and then wipe away the blood, disturbing the loose skin torn by the blow. It was across his cheekbone and felt very deep and very painful. The astringent smelled very strongly, and left the wound and the skin around it tingling.

“Just what do you think you’re doing!?” one of the guards barked, and Zevran simply handed Jylan a small jar of elfroot poultice, warm from his breast pocket, and turned.

Unlike yesterday morning when he had woken up dressed in a loose shirt and trousers, Zevran was _Master Arainai_ now. His cape was turned at the shoulder so the fine wolf’s pelt showed its blue-grey colour, the rich black of his leather doublet picked out with silver and gold details, tooled bracers and shoulder guards with fine steel glinting at the edge of the hard hide. He was openly armed with his duelling daggers long at his belt, a row of small bronze hilts showing his throwing knives like decorations, and a bandolier of dangerous glass bottles was belted across his chest.

Between his clothing and the cold, angry look smouldering in his eyes, the guard balked and a visible shake knocked through him.

“Consider, _briefly_ , if I am an elf worth crossing today.” His accent came rolling heavily over the words, the severity of it almost without explanation as Zevran was anything but a new arrival on Ferelden’s shores. He did it intentionally, to add one more terrifying aspect to who he was: an elf, yes, but one who was armed, one who had money, one who had presence, and one who was distinctly not of this city or this kingdom.

Jylan dabbed but did not rub the elfroot across the deep gash in his face. The guard, wisely, pulled an about-face and resumed his patrol of the prison’s main floor, but going the opposite way.

Without missing a beat, Zevran turned back to him and unfolded a small kit in his open hand, placing a fine silver needle between his teeth before taking a length of thin catgut and threading it deftly.

“Not ideal, no,” he mumbled, returning to his work and positioning Jylan’s face with a gentle touch at his chin. “But certainly not the strangest conditions I have ever sutured a wound under. Hold still, this will pinch.”

It did pinch. It was sensitive and painful and carried a sense of wrongness about it that reminded him of the movement of magic through his body since the Rite. He felt the thread more than the needle and when he closed his eyes he felt a sense of nausea when it only highlighted the sensation of the sutures. He stared at the torch burning on the wall across the prison from his cell, and when it was done he was satisfied that the event was over and would not have to be repeated.

“Thank you,” he said.

“It will still leave a scar, but perhaps a more fashionable one than what you risked before.” Zevran wet an elfroot leaf with a splash of alcohol from his flask, and Jylan was able to place the leaf over his cheek and the stitches like a bandage. The assassin then handed him the fine engraved silver flask, with the pointed clause of _‘I want that back when you’re done_ ’.

Jylan took a drink and the burn of vodka almost made him cough, but he resisted. He handed it back with another, softer thanks.

“Why did you mention Formari Cyril to me?” He asked, because the comment had been out of place. Zevran was in the act of capping the flask when the question came up, and with brief consideration the assassin removed the lid again and took his own quick, bracing swallow of the alcohol.

“Because she has informed me that the Formari Guildsmen intend to represent you on her authority.”

“…I understand that I am often considered to be very stubborn either as a result of my tranquil state or due to some remaining aspects of my former personality,” Jylan stated from within his cell. “But I believe at this point that Formari Cyril has surpassed me. I will not accept her aid or the supposition that the guild maintains authority or control over me. I owe them nothing.”

“Good, I am glad to hear that.” Zevran said with a short nod, capping the vodka and stowing the elfroot back in its hidden place. “Because I intend to take my influence as far as it will go. You will _not_ be judged by Bann Elmar of Gwaren, my friend.” That did not make much sense.

“Will the process be expedited by presenting me to the Seneschal or Captain of the City Guard instead?” Jylan asked.

“It might, but you’re going in the wrong direction. Think _up_.”

“In the hierarchy?” Jylan asked, and Zevran nodded. “The only person whose authority supersedes that of the Bann is the Teyrna. The Queen.”

The assassin nodded again.

“I have an audience with Her Majesty tomorrow, unless your brother is able to meet with the Bann _today_ to sort all of this out first. Under no circumstances will I stop your family from handling its issues on their own, but if Rian fails to meet with the Bann today, then I will see the Queen tomorrow.”

“That is very bold of you,” Jylan stated, intending to caution Zevran from overstepping himself.

“Her Majesty has the elf who embarrassed the Arl of Amaranthine in his own court sitting in her civil prison.” Zevran’s answer came with a smooth grin as Jylan retreated from the window and sat down slowly in his corner. It was no longer easy to see the assassin, but there was relief to be found in no longer standing. “She will want to know this, and she will want to see you if only to congratulate you on your accomplishments. We are working as swiftly as we can, my friend. You will be free of this place soon.”

“Your efforts are appreciated, Zevran, thank you.”

Zevran made a polite and quiet departure from the prison. Many, many empty hours followed without food or distraction. The sunlight spilling through his cell would have been more pleasant had it not permitted the wind to sneak inside and nip at him. He was fatigued as much from the cold as from his injuries.

The day passed into evening, into night. He ate the portion of bread allotted to him by the guards and then the goat’s meat Ariyah had sent to him last night. The keepsake kept his fingers from freezing off, but as the temperature began to drop again there was no feeling in his icy legs and his back was tortured by sharp, cutting fingers of cold.

He did not sleep for more than a few minutes at a time, or until whenever the wind began to blow. It made a crying sound through the raw teeth of the broken wall and brought snow against him. Despite the risk of the keepsake being taken from him, he rubbed it constantly and kept the enchantment alive to aid him. He was awake to watch the sky begin to lighten. He was awake when it began to snow yet again and he was faced with the reality that if he did not begin to move his health would deteriorate.

His arm was no better and felt even more painful. It was no longer a mere ache or momentary cripple, but a constant, yearning tremble of pain from his elbow to his wrist which did not cease. He rubbed his legs with his good hand to warm them, antagonizing the tears in his knees and the deep bruises in the muscles and bone. If he did not walk and move about then he would freeze.

He heard a commotion at the prison doors, nothing which could cause alarm, but a flurry of voices and one which was familiar to him. He heard footsteps running and watched the window of his cell in case- and it was.

“ _Jeevan-!_ ” Neria appeared, her face blushed from the cold and a wide smile across her face. “Jeevan stand up, I have good news.”

His body hurt, the cold had numbed his feet to the point where he could not feel them inside his boots. He reached the window and held to the bars with his right hand, the left cradled to his chest. She commented on the sutures and frowned at him for not letting her help two days ago, but what mattered most was that she touched his face with her warm hand and brushed some of the ice-melt from his hair. He was very tired and in great discomfort and until he was brought out of this cell he did not expect either of those negative points to fade.

“Jeevan,” she interrupted herself with a grin and relieved laugh. “Jeevan: Eli Masao is dead.” Oh. That was not a reference to his trial or release, but-

“Good,” he said, touching his head to the cell door but careful not to apply any pressure to the brand. “That is good news, Neria. Has Master Arainai fled the city?”

“No- Zevran had nothing to do with it!” She kept her voice soft and continued to stroke his face, curling her fingers and brushing them from his brow to his cheek, over and over again through the bars. “Eli tried to come back again, he was gloating- I think? About you. It was over so fast I didn’t even hear most of it. You remember Jossan Bashar and Hallin Serras? They came out like a storm and gave Eli and his shipmates a beating, two on three, before chasing them down the lane. Common sense said they’d go and get drunk and try again, so Samar went around the neighbourhood first and found his own shipmates, bringing five of them back to the house to wait.”

Zevran had said yesterday that the alienage was close to rioting. It did not make sense for Neria to come to him excited and laughing today if the alienage had been set on fire by warring gangs of out-of-work sailors last night.

“Was Samar harmed?” he asked, and she shook her head with her own relieved hush of “ _No, no, no one was hurt”_. That was good.

“They never showed up,” she explained. “Ariyah and Rian were afraid they might, but they didn’t even come down the alley. No one slept a lot but everyone wanted to know if you’re alright or what the Bann will say. They were talking about the Hahren and who they think should replace him- lots of names, no agreement.”

“What happened to Eli?” Jylan asked, his eyes closed from fatigue as Neria’s touch strayed to his hair, her fingers combing some of the water and ice from the roughly cut locks.

“He and his shipmates got drunk, like we thought,” she answered. “Most found their way home, but at dawn this morning three of them were found passed out in the snow under the _Vhenadahl_.” Eli had dropped himself in a snow mound with a bottle still in his hand, head up to show he’d either been watching the snow or the stars, and choked on his own vomit while he slept.

“Good,” Jylan repeated. “This is good news. Thank you for telling me.”

“I came as fast as I could. Rian was already gone when…” her voice tapered off, and the strokes and touches slowed until she was just holding her warm palm and fingers to his cold face. “Jeevan, let me help you, _please…_ ”

“You stated that you were with my family last night, correct?” He did not open his eyes to look at her, he was very tired and was resisting the weakness creeping through his legs. He heard Neria whisper yes to him. “If it had come to violence, would you have used… your talents, to protect them?” What he asked of her would have been disastrous to her balancing act of midwifery and apostasy within the alienage.

“Not as a first resort,” she answered, “but no one was coming near Ariyah or her children without going through me first.” Good.

“Then you have already offered more help than I could expect from anyone, Midwife Surana, and I consider the debt of gratitude owed to you to be significant.” He had not begun work on the dream ward for her…

“For such a smart elf you’re very stupid when you want to be, Master Ashera,” Neria scolded him, “Don’t talk like that, there’s no debt, you’re still in a _cage_ remember?”

“It is a difficult environment to tune out.”

“You’re still _shivering_ …” She was not angry with him, her voice was gentle.

“I do not believe that has changed since you last brought it to my attention two days ago.” His thighs were tight and screaming with fatigue from standing.

“ _Jeevan-_ ”

A loud clatter and the clank of boots marching in time interrupted them. Neria looked off where Jylan could not see, and he performed an inexplicable act. He reached through the window bars with his good hand and caught a lock of her blonde hair with his gloved fingertips. He could not feel what he touched and it occurred to him mid-gesture that his blunted senses may result in uncomfortable tugs or pulls on her hair. He passed the lock behind her ear and withdrew his touch.

She turned a shocked look on him, but it was of no consequence as Jylan’s legs gave out. He slumped to his knees and remained there, exhausted and shivering and hungry and in pain.

Gruff, firm voices bounced off the stone walls and the echoes broke up the words. Neria spoke and repeated his name but she could neither see nor reach him from the window despite her sudden attempts. There was more foot-stomping and Neria was silenced.

The cell door made a loud, echoing sound of metal gears crashing and slamming together, and then it was pulled back and Jylan was awash in firelight. He recoiled briefly from the noise before warm air rolled into the cell and his next breath carried the scent of wood smoke and old leather.

The man who had opened the door was no guardsman, but a knight wearing steel plate armour with the green dragon of Gwaren rearing over his breastplate. The creature’s pose was briefly reminiscent of the Grey Griffon, but this was no Warden. Jylan did not quite understand what was happening before the knight reached into the cell, grabbed him under one arm, and hauled him to his feet with a pitiful, involuntary noise gasping up his throat.

“Where are you taking him?” Neria’s voice trembled when she spoke. There were two more knights- Swords. Swords of Gwaren, that was the name of the order which protected the Teyrnir. There were three in total as Jylan was brought out of his cell, and they were each in service of the small black-haired woman with a severe nose and rich red doublet over a gown of fine gold-marked Fereldan leather. The woman was elven. She regarded Neria as her inferior.

“To trial,” she said with a voice faintly marked by Orlais. “My Lady is already waiting and they have been in progress for some time: she will judge this elf and be done with the matter.” The woman nodded briskly to the knights. “Take him.”

The knight pulled him but after his second step Jylan’s legs failed again and he fell. Rather than simply haul and drag him from the prison, the knight consented to stop and wait as Jylan struggled to bring one foot up, bracing his good hand on the floor and rising slowly. Something heavy was dropped around his shoulders by another knight and his hands found coarse, warm fur: a lambskin blanket.

“I’m coming with you-” Neria said.

“Certainly not,” she was stopped by the finely dressed servant. “Unless you are his wife?”

“I’m his employer.”

“Wife I might have believed.”

“No!” She insisted. “I’m the alienage midwife; he’s my chemist!”

The third knight came to Jylan with a rope and intended to bind his hands. Jylan did not resist this attempt but felt his breaths falter and pain gasp from his mouth when his left was roughly pulled and handled. He did not resist. He was tranquil and elven and he would be beaten if he resisted. The first knight grunted and waved away the rope.

“He’s no threat: they beat him stupid.”

“Captain’s orders?” the third said. The first grunted again and took the rope. Jylan presented his right hand willingly and the knight tied the coarse rope in a tight knot which bit hard around his wrist, then passed the rope behind him and over his left shoulder, binding it all together so Jylan’s uninjured arm was pulled up awkwardly behind his back. It did not presently hurt, and the lambskin was resettled across his back.

He could not feel his feet and his body ached terribly, but he was not dragged or shoved or kicked as they left the prison. The courtyard was active and loud with patrols of guardsmen training, horses and mules dragging burdens with wheels or sleigh tracks. Servants and craftsmen were chopping wood, running errands, engaged in conversation or otherwise busy in the light snow fall.

He was taken directly to the gate between the lower and upper baileys and the knights let him stand and rest a few moments in the blustering wind before the elven servant and Neria caught up with them. She tried to come to his side directly but the knights prevented this: he was still a prisoner accused of a crime. The older woman led the knights through the upper bailey’s courtyard and into the squat, square belly of the old fort itself. Jylan was flanked by two knights with the third behind him, and Neria switched between walking next to or just behind the last one.

There was no wind inside the fort and this made it easier for Jylan to breathe again, his ears completely numb along with his nose and lips from the cold. He could not reach the keepsake in his pocket and doubted its warmth would aid him at this point. It would only be taken away.

Stairs. Stairs required more coordination than the cold cell had left him with. The knights caught him the first time with steadying words, but his second slip took all parties by surprise and he struck the soft part of his knee on the rounded protrusion of the next step. Now the knights took him under the arms and dragged him, because the maidservant, or chamberlain, or seneschal, or whatever title the elven woman had, did not want to wait for him to recover from the pain swarming his leg like feasting insects.

He heard Neria taking swift, angry breaths, but she did not draw the ire of the knight next to her.

They moved up the stairs and in through a pair of large, heavy wooden doors. The floor in this room was made of polished granite, large fires roaring in heavy, carved stone cauldrons and filling the vaulted chamber with smoke which had blackened the ceiling and clouded the peaked roof. Sweet rushes and fine oil had been scattered on the floor, covering the scent of winter mud and perhaps the foul stink of prisoners like himself.

The chamber was large and compared well with the throne room of Vigil’s Keep, though both were easily dwarfed by the main court of Castle Denerim. There was only one throne and it was neither as large or grand as the Queen’s Seat in Denerim, but was reserved for the ruling Teyrn of Gwaren. An ornately carved chair Jylan presumed belonged to the city Bann was off to the side and not on the platform.

There were people in this room.

A man in a fine gold doublet slashed with Gwaren green was standing with his arms behind his back, his black hair twisted into Fereldan braids and his beard thick and neat down his throat. He was likely the Bann of Gwaren City, as he had two attending clerks behind him. A woman with bright red hair in a long braid was beside the Bann and wore the green of the Teynir with a gold sash similar to what Garavel had worn in Vigil’s Keep: making her Seneschal of Gwaren.

Two Swords of Gwaren, knights like those accompanying Jylan and Neria, were flanking the stone platform with long spears in hand and swords and shields resting at their sides. Opposite the Bann was the disappointing presence of Formari Cyril in her blue and white formari robes, though her Amaranthine guardsmen were absent. In front of the platform and respectfully back by a few paces stood Zevran and Rian and a woman in a long brown wool dress with a black doublet covering her arms and bodice was beside them with- Bruiser the doorman for the Twisted Tail? Madame Minra was here?

Zevran had indeed over extended himself, because the woman seated on the throne lifted a hand and halted any conversation already passing between the assembled persons. Her hand held several thick gold rings, and her arms were wrapped in fine green brocade cut with more gold, a white fur robe caressing her shoulders and belted with fine leather at her waist. Her robe was all green silk and velvet, the colour of Gwaren with the royal red of the nation preserved by the fiery orange of the large red sunstones set into her diadem.

Her hair was fair and golden, threaded with grey and bound in elegant braids which gathered and spread behind her. Her pale eyes were wise and watching, sharp with intrigue. A narrow nose and thin pink lips curved elegantly to appear at the perpetual edge of a graceful smile.

Queen Anora Mac Tir of Ferelden was a person of entirely too much regard and rank to preside over this matter. She was very beautiful and very powerful and Jylan had only seen Her Majesty’s face once before, as he did not consider her face stamped onto the back of all minted silver coins in Ferelden to bear an exact resemblance. It had been rumoured in Amaranthine that the Queen was the only figure in Ferelden whom Warden Commander Surana hesitated to cross, with the added weight of Her Majesty’s preference being to also avoid unnecessary conflicts with the Arl.

“And this is he?” Her Majesty asked her question with a delicate strum of her ringed fingers through the cold air of the hall. She placed that hand down on the head of a patient but alert mabari war hound beside her, one significantly paler and older than Dirthamen. Jylan recognized the way the hound’s ears twisted towards the woman, and then the way its paws shifted on the cold stone: it wanted her to scratch and pet it. “It never ceases to amaze how anyone associated with Amaranthine so quickly becomes embroiled in the most remarkable circumstances.”

The chamberlain or handmaiden or whomever she was that had brought him here- walked forward and mounted the steps of the platform silently, swiftly passing the mabari which saw absolutely no threat in the elven woman’s passing. The servant vanished behind the throne, but presumably could still be heard by the Queen if needed.

Jylan was brought forward, and he saw Zevran place a hand very gently to Rian’s shoulder and guide him to turn and step back so as not to block the carpet Jylan was brought down. Zevran was calm, but serious. Rian’s nerves left him sheet-white and fidgeting. Jylan looked at his brother only very briefly before looking at the floor at his own feet: if his attention lingered on Rian then his brother would become further agitated and emotional. Neria was guided to join them, and ideally she would provide an emotional point for Rian to anchor himself and his composure to.

“Give your name to your queen, elf.” The woman with the braid and the garb of a Seneschal spoke to him, and Jylan nodded slowly while keeping his gaze on the floor. He was warmer with the lambskin over his shoulders, but could not stop his shivering jaw or feel anything but pain from the waist down, nothing at all from his knees. His hands were both entirely numb.

“I was born Jeevan Ashera of the Gwaren Alienage, Your Majesty.” His voice was not clear, but it did not crumble away from him either. “In the Circle of Magi I was renamed Jylan Ansera and made one of the tranquil. These are my legal names.”

“Which explains,” Her Majesty hummed, rubbing her fingers between her mabari’s ears. “-as was already discussed, why my Seneschal has read such decorated praise for two different elves bearing the same description.” He did not answer her, it was not his place to do so. “Formari Cyril, who is this elf?”

“He is Compounder Second Class Jylan Ansera of the Formari Guildsmen, formerly contracted to the service of the Arl of Amaranthine and Grey Wardens of Vigil’s Keep. He has been summoned back to Amaranthine by order of-”

“Her Majesty,” Jylan interrupted, but he spoke over Cyril and not the Queen. “Requested only my name, which you have given improperly, Formari Mercier.”

“You are Compounder Second Class-”

“I am no such thing. I am no Guildsman. I am on record in the Court of Amaranthine as stating my resignation and departure from the guild, and I have not reconsidered my position on this issue at any point since its completion.”

“You were previously a member of the Guildsmen?” Her Majesty asked her question with a hand raised and palm showing to Cyril, an absolutely clear command for silence. “And you left their organization?” Jylan kept his eyes on the floor.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Both points are true.”

“They have requested that I release you into their care and that facilitating your return to Amaranthine would reflect well on me.” Jylan had two options and despite having no rational reason to explain or utilize the gift of tact, chose the more poignant response.

“Your Majesty is the Queen of Ferelden and undisputed Teyrna of Gwaren,” he said. “That the Formari Guildsmen suggest that it is you who should curry favour with them implies that the flawed nature of the guild’s leadership has not changed since my departure. Barring a direct command from Your Majesty, the refusal of which would be treason, I will not return to Amaranthine and will not consent to leave Gwaren under Formari Cyril’s authority.”

“Are you the same Tranquil who was present in Redcliffe village last year when His Royal Majesty the King of Ferelden brokered peace between House Guerrin and House Surana?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then I see why my Royal Husband liked you so.” She paid him an unexpected compliment, and then proceeded with: “Formari Cyril, you are dismissed and may return to your duties as resident Formari of Gwaren. Should Bann Elmar require anything of you, his grace will make such needs known.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Cyril had been commanded by the Queen of the Realm, and left the chamber without another word.

Jylan did not feel balanced or well. It was Her Majesty’s court and the discussion would proceed for as short or long as Her Majesty desired, but Jylan had struggled to walk this far, and with Cyril out of the room he did not know how much longer this would last.

“I…” It was out of place for him to speak without being spoken to, but it would be further out of place should he suddenly collapse and make a spectacle of himself in Her Majesty’s court. He breathed the word and rolled one shoulder, seeking the attention of the knights still laying their heavy touch at his back and shoulders. “I request to kneel.”

There was no immediate change, but then both men began to push down on his shoulders and Jylan teetered dangerously with his arms bound and held close. He found one knee, then the other, and settled like that.

“It is a strange bond you have this prisoner in, Sergeant,” Her Majesty stated with a sense of derision in her voice. “Explain yourself.”

“His arm is broken, You Majesty. The rope restrains without hurting him.” This was true.

“And how did he acquire such an injury?”

“I imagine from the guardsmen who brought him in and gave him an expected beating after his arrest.”

“Horse thieves are beaten, Sergeant. Drunks, and brawlers, and rapists, and rabble-rousers are all beaten, but this elf is Tranquil. Unbind him, and inform the Guard Captain that such excessive force is unnecessary on someone who is by his very nature non-combative.”

“As you command, My Queen.” The knight gave a proper salute, and it was left to one of the others to untie the rope holding Jylan’s arm behind his back. His shoulder had begun to ache intensely from the hold, and he stooped his shoulder briefly to show thanks for Her Majesty’s kindness.

“Elf, you were arrested on charges of thieving from noble kennels,” Her Majesty stated to his bowed head. “My court has read your letters of good character and recommendation from Vigil’s Keep, as well as heard such testimony directly from one of your employers: the proprietress of one of the most affluent courtesan houses in the city. It would disgrace the word of many esteemed persons if you were proven of theft. Where and how did you obtain the mabari found in the alienage with you?”

“The hound was given to me by Lady Rowan Guerrin, Heir of Redcliffe Arling, in the royal city of Denerim last spring.”

“Lady Rowan is but a young child,” Her Majesty rightly stated. “Who officiated this gift?”

“Her brother, Warden Sergeant Connor Guerrin of Vigil’s Keep, Judicator of House Guerrin.”

“What prompted this gift? What circumstances led to it?”

“House Guerrin stood in disgrace after the war with Amaranthine.” He recounted the circumstances as required. “Lady Rowan and Warden Guerrin’s father was killed in the siege and capture of Redcliffe Castle and the Arlessa was disgraced and exiled by order of His Majesty King Alistair of Ferelden, your royal husband. Arl Teagan had not yet received his command of exile, but his status was in jeopardy. To ensure his sister’s quality of living, Warden Guerrin obtained the King’s permission to liquidate and disperse his family’s assets and amass wealth for his sister to inherit when she comes of age. Among these assets were the hounds in the Arl of Denerim’s estate. Warden Guerrin stated that his sister would keep only one dog for herself as a guardian and friend and the rest were to be dispatched as gifts to kennels of Amaranthine, South Reach, the Banns of Redcliffe, and Castle Denerim. Lady Rowan insisted her brother should take one for himself, and when he refused she awarded it to me instead.”

“As you are the Tranquil who argued to my Royal Husband’s face that he was ending the occupation of Redcliffe Village too early in the peacemaking process,” Her Majesty purred, and Jylan did not look up from his aching knees and the cold floor. “I will assume you are also the Tranquil who was assigned the care and recovery of Warden Guerrin? You have mentioned him numerous times.”

“Warden Guerrin saved himself,” After angrily refusing Jylan’s blends of embrium to ease him from his addiction to the dangerous reagent. “I merely provided assistance.”

“Your modesty does you credit, Master Ashera, but you saved her brother’s life and in return Lady Rowan gave you a fitting reward.” He heard the Queen begin to smile, and her soft voice even hinted at amusement and a laugh. “I am pleased with your version of the story, although Rowan tells it with much more flare and enthusiasm.” And then, briskly: “Summon the kennelmaster.”

As this order was carried out, Her Majesty continued to speak.

“Your family and employers call you by one name, and your former guild by another. You have documents for both Ashera and Ansera, and I believe by your tranquil nature that you are telling the truth of your identity. You have a document of pedigree amongst your papers which describes a young Mabari now two years old from the kennels of House Guerrin, who was taken as a spoil of war by the Silver Order of Amaranthine and bonded to a tall, Tranquil, Rivaini elf with black hair. Sending word to Amaranthine is a waste of resources: if the hound is bound to you, Master Ashera, then he will leave with you.”

The doors to the chamber opened and a horrible sound of growling, snapping, and sharp human voices erupted from the hall. The stones made Dirthamen’s noises carry and ricochet across the floor and walls, demonic rumbled cut with sharp screeches from the outraged animal as the kennelmaster appeared and struggled in the door. She wore metal plates on her arms and legs and had a rope lashed around her shoulder to help her drag and pull, a short flail in her other hand as her boots gripped and helped her keep her footing.

“ _C’mon, boy,”_ The kennelmaster grunted, “ _I know it’s hard._ We’ll get you ‘ome, boy _, c’mon.”_

Dirthamen was dragged into the hall with his muzzle locked into a metal and leather contraption strapped over his head. His legs were hobbled with leather straps so he could not run or jump properly, and there were odd metal shoes strapped to his feet to prevent his claws from lashing out. Those iron shoes were what let the kennelmaster drag him, because the mabari could not find the purchase to dig in and rip away from her. The rope, at least, was lashed around the hound’s shoulders and not his wide neck, otherwise he would have certainly strangled himself in the fight.

Rian gasped in horror and clapped both hands over his mouth. Neria was stricken and called the dog’s name, but he was deaf to her in his struggle. Mabari were not like horses who could be captured and put to work for any human who held them. If a mabari was not transferred peacefully and calmly, then they would not go. If a mabari was bonded to someone and could not be convinced of their master’s death, then they would never bond with anyone else and would certainly die.

It was easier now to understand, watching Dirthamen’s white-eyed rage, how a mabari could in fact die from separation. It was not a simple case of wasting away to nothing, quietly, in the back of a kennel. This madness was suicidal. His bonds and restraints were not to humiliate or control the animal, but served as the only way to keep him from killing anyone who came near him. In this state, Jylan was not even certain that encroaching on the dog was necessary: the mabari seemed wild enough to outright hunt down anyone in range.

The knights reached down and drew Jylan up to his numb, shaking feet again. He was urged to walk but not shoved or harassed to do so. He walked towards Dirthamen and this made complete sense. If Jylan was to be proven a liar and a thief despite all that had been said and agreed to by the Queen, it would have to come from Dirthamen. If the hound mauled him, he was a liar.

Dirthamen would not maul him. Dirthamen would not hurt him. It was entirely possible that in his rage he would knock Jylan down and perhaps step on him, but he would not try to kill him. It was Dirthamen, and Dirthamen would not attack him.

They drew closer and the knights began to hesitate. One of them tried to hold Jylan back briefly because he did not heed their hesitation, but swiftly released him. He was free to make his approach.

“Easy- _easy_ -” Gwaren’s kennelmaster grunted, flipping her flail in her grasp so the handle was used to press down under Dirthamen’s chin, into his throat when the dog changed tactics and tried to ram her. With his hobbled legs and shod feet he did not have the traction for much speed or power, and the blunt handle caused him sharp pain for his efforts. The two were engaged in a dangerous, circling dance, and when the tight rope between them turned the Kennelmaster so she could see Jylan approaching, she gave him an incredulous look and then released the rope.

The hound was shocked by this change, and with his violent snapping he started to retreat from her without turning away. Jylan took a knee. Between his injured arm, weakened state, and general ineptitude in combative situations, if Dirthamen was hostile towards him he would certainly sustain great and painful injuries before the hound could be restrained again.

This danger did not concern him, because this was Dirth.

“Dirthamen, to me.”

Dirth’s ears went straight up and swivelled towards him. The roaring growls shattered into terrified shrieks and whines, and the dog’s shoulders deflated from outrage into terror and panic. He barked and shrieked inside his muzzle and continued to back up, swinging his frightened head back until he saw Jylan, and then his legs collapsed and the restraining bonds kept him from being able to creep and crawl on his belly across the floor.

Jylan made up the distance with his screaming legs still crouched down, and Dirth went still as soon as his hand brushed the dog’s bristled throat. He did not stop crying, and he was shaking from intense stress and terror. Jylan reached behind the dog’s ears for the muzzle’s strapped and unbuckled the clasp there, then the other behind his neck.

The muzzle was full of foam and blood when he pulled it off and discarded it on the floor. The Kennelmaster made sympathetic noises at the sight of what the dog’s frantic nature had produced. Just like a bonded dog, she said. Any good dog would do the same, she said. Poor thing, she said.

“I request space for the hound,” Jylan said, removing his glove and using his bare hand to stroke away the blood and saliva and foam from Dirth’s mouth. He was careful of the dog’s teeth but not cautious of them, and ignored the unpleasant sensation of the fluids clogging the animal’s snout. Dirth lay still and continued to shriek and make awful noises, but did not make any movements at all.

He removed the offensive strap from around his dog’s front legs, and Dirth moved. Jylan sat down properly on the stone floor of the throne room and his dog immediately climbed across his lap, bound legs dragging behind him, and dropped his head close around Jylan’s side, whining ever more loudly. He eased his broken arm down from where it had been held to his chest this whole time and let it lay on his dog, using the other hand to rub over his mabari’s back.

He untied the rope used to drag him here and rubbed under his dog’s shoulders where the rope had cut and bruised him. He could not reach the second strap with Dirth laying on him in this manner, but that was not enough reason to move him. His dog’s short tail was down as far between his legs as it would go, and he was shaking uncontrollably despite being much warmer than Jylan himself.

Queen Anora spoke and her Kennelmaster answered. Rian used his voice and Zevran said something important. Jylan listened to none of it as his priority was Dirth and the noises of intense pain and distress he was still making.

Neria came and sat next to him. She spoke Dirth’s name twice before sitting down near his hound’s head, so he knew she was there. She rubbed between his ears and then down between his eyes, and over the red line cut across his face from the muzzle. His hound did not stop crying, but he was calmer and his eyes were closed with her added attention. When she was certain that Dirth would accept her presence, she settled on her hip beside Jylan and leaned her side against his. She, like his dog, was very warm.

“We’ll take you home after this,” she murmured to him, and settled her hand very gently under the shoulder of his broken arm. “We’ll take you both straight home.”

“Thank you,” he murmured back.

“I, Queen Anora Mac Tir of Ferelden, Teyrna of Gwaren, absolve the prisoner of all wrong-doing and strike his charges and accusations from the city record. A pardon is offered to his employers for his uncalled for absence, and this matter shall exist no further in the eyes of the city authorities. This is by my word made law. Go in peace, citizens, and Maker Be With You All.”

His trial was dismissed, and they went home.


	42. Uncle Jee (repost)

 

Jylan was carried home. He required aid from both Zevran and Rian to make the long trek from the old fort to the alienage and was simply unable to complete the journey under his own power. Magical healing was not a viable option in the streets and the skin of hot spiced wine Zevran darted into a tavern to purchase and bring back for him was only enough to warm him, not restore his mobility. Dirth’s tender paws did not make him any better equipped for the cold and icy trek, and he nearly tripped Rian several times by remaining constantly underfoot. Jylan leaned on Rian for most of the journey, and when they were back within the slippery lanes of the dock district Neria left and hurried ahead of them.

It was thanks to her early departure that their welcome was anticipated and prepared for. Samar and his friend Hallin both came quickly through the snow and found the three of them a block from the alienage gates, and as they were fresher and warmer, adopted the task of supporting Jylan’s numb, staggering stumbles.

When they arrived it did not matter that Neria was there, or Hallin, or Hallin’s brother-in-law Jossan, or any other unfamiliar members of the community. What mattered was the steaming hot water Ariyah had ready for him, and the fact Jylan went into the blistering soak as soon as his siblings could pull off his cold, wet, soiled clothing.

He understood, without question, that the water was no hotter than was normal for a proper bath. It was barely steaming, it would not have offended even the children’s soft skin, but in his current state the water was intolerably hot. The heat ignited every bruise and sprain and sore place in his lower body, and when Ariyah poured more of it over his shoulders and back it did the same awful work there as well.

“No, you _stay in there_ until it stops being too hot,” his sister was firm with him and that covered the nervous tremor in her voice. “You’re cold as stone and if you stay that way Maker only knows what it’ll do to you. Sanjay, let your uncle Rian lift it from the fire for you, dear. No, Ravi, the yellow soap, not that one; your uncle Jee is not a load of sheets.”

“I do not- believe it would make much difference- which soap you use.” Jylan commented, shaking hard and up to his waist in water that was much too hot and making everything _hurt_. Even to breathe was difficult.

Ariyah’s answer was half a pot of painfully hot water pouring over his head and splitting across his shoulders and torso. She scolded him about how yes it did make a difference, unless he wanted lye burns to add to his troubles, which Jylan did not. He did not expect and thus briefly shied away from the hot, soapy rag his sister started scrubbing his back with.

He should not have been so cold sitting in water so hot, but he rubbed his legs under the water and he could feel where the heat stopped. Rather than wash himself, he tried to ease his own shivering. The tub was right beside the fire and yet he was still cold. More hot water was poured over his head, but he was still cold.

He heard some of the conversation around him but none of it was directed to him specifically. The dominating topic was Eli and his death and how they believed the Hahren would proceed from here. Even if Jylan had been motivated to participate, he was repeatedly washed with hot water and was instructed to bend as far over his own knees as he could so Ariyah could scrub and wash what remained of his hair. The longer locks to either side of his face she called ridiculous, but she scrubbed him clean first.

“You’ve good, sharp scissors, don’t you, Neria?” This was so and Neria left to fetch them. “And a proper razor!” Elven men did not have the same facial hair as humans, so there was no reason for Rian or Samar to have one any more than Jylan may have.

Because of his broken arm Jylan was not much use to himself while getting out of the bath, rinsed, dried, and dressed in clothes warmed first by the fire. He was not taken upstairs or to the bed in the main room, but to a chair despite Rian’s grumbles that his hair could wait until tomorrow.

“You know what else can wait for tomorrow?” Ariyah asked him, “Your next meal.”

“I can cook!” Rian cried back.

“Not without my larder or kitchen you can’t, boy.” To this, Rian had no counter and grumbled childishly back at their sister, and then helped lay a blanket across Jylan’s legs. A thin weave of old linen was draped across his shoulders and pulled around in front of him, his broken arm held to his chest by his free hand. When Neria returned she came with Jeevan, who gave the scissors and a razor to Ariyah. The boy’s mother had spent the last few minutes whipping up a soapy lather in a wooden bowl.

“I know it’s winter, Jeevan,” his sister muttered at the back of his head, “But those brutes cut so close in the back that I don’t see a point in anything but just shaving away part of it, or most.”

“It is hair, and not very important,” he answered.

“Neria he’s _all_ bruises,” Ariyah continued, “You said he couldn’t walk? Jeevan, don’t move so much or you’ll lose part of your ear next.” His sister placed her hand on the back of his head to keep him steady, and then began to comb and cut away the remains of his hair with the scissors.

Neria knelt down next to him and placed her hand on his knee, prompting him to look at her again.

“Where does it hurt most?” Her voice and manner were very warm when she spoke to him.

“My arm is the most painful, at present.” She nodded and then opened her hands to him, indicating that he should present his arm.

It was very painful for him to do so and at her soft insistence that he extend his arm at the elbow, he refused her: it would no longer bend without suffering excessive levels of pain.

Neria’s hands clasped his, and despite the low and troubled voices of the men at Ariyah’s table, she focused herself. Jeevan knelt and paid close attention as his mentor began to draw on the Fade. This time, Jylan did not stop her as light began to collect gently, and then spread.

It did not feel good, but it was not painful. The magic was invasive and unpleasant, like a thin worm moving between the bones of his hand and through the knot of his wrist, then winding persistently up through his arm. It did not hurt, and her touch outside his arm was very gentle, but the worm moved and split and began to pull on things, and drag them around, and rearrange what was broken so that it could be made whole again. The pain concentrated in his elbow but then began to cool with the invasive presence, and as the source of the alarm was eased, so too was the crippling hurt bracing the rest of his arm. She worked slowly, but every weave of light and trick of the Fade was deftly cast. When Jylan felt the last of the pain fade away to little more than a numb ache, he spread and then slowly curled his fingers into a fist. He held the gesture for a few seconds, squeezing tight, and then relaxed again and rolled his wrist. Her hands remained on his arm, one hand rubbing his elbow back and forth to finish the work, and he answered by resting his own fingers and palm to her arm in turn.  

“Thank you,” he said as the magic faded. She removed one hand from him, but the arm he was touching remained in place. She did not look up at him where she was still kneeling next to the chair, her arm across his lap.

“That bath did a good job warming you up,” she mumbled, and then gave a rough swallow to clear her throat. She looked up at him and her cheeks were very pink, a result of sitting so near to the fire. “Does anything else hurt?”

“Yes, but cannot distinguish what hurts from injury or from mere fatigue.” She squeezed his arm gently at his comment. It occurred to him that she might reach up and strokes his face again as she had so many times through the prison door, but she did not.

“What about your face?”

“I am not certain what the effects of magical healing would be on flesh currently sutured together.”

“Good point,” she whispered back.

“Neria,” his sister said behind him. Jylan had not felt the scissors or razors for several minutes, but Ariyah was repeatedly touching and brushing one part of his head in the very back, near where skull met neck. “Come look at this?”

She stood and the touch between them faded. This was unfortunate but unavoidable.

“What… what is that?” His sister asked.

“A birth mark?” Neria answered, and Jylan felt one of her hands settle warmly at the back of his head, what he assumed was her thumb brushing up through the short-cut hair. “No, that’s… _Maker’s Breath-_ ”

The talk and conversation in the house went silent.

“If the midwife’s swearing by the Maker then it might be best we leave,” one of the men Jylan did not know said, presumably to one of his brothers. A mumble of agreement passed through the house guests. They had not been alarmed or put off by Jylan being bathed or Neria’s use of magic in their presence, but they apparently drew a line at blasphemes.

“Jeevan, does this hurt?” Neria asked, placing her fingertips to the spot on the back of his head and rubbing gently. Her fingers were warm and the pressure was pleasant.

“Quite the opposite,” he answered, which had the adverse effect of chasing away her touch until she gave one of his ears a sharp flick.

“Don’t be cheeky,” she scolded, and then, to Ariyah: “I think it’s the brand, or more of it.”

“ _Through-?_ ” his sister gasped. If Neria gave a response then it was non-verbal. “I’m not shaving it,” Ariyah decided. “I’m not shaving any of his hair. _One mark_ is bad enough on his face, nevermind what’s all over his back. I’m not letting the world see this.” The implication, Jylan understood now, was that there was a corresponding mark on the back of his head which matched the alignment of the brand on his forehead. As most Tranquil had been perpetually hooded or, like himself, had hair, he had not known this.

“He’d look a lot better with at least _some_ of it shaved off,” Neria complained. Her hand brushed down the back of his head where his hair went long, then incredibly close, then long again. “It’s all flat looking and still damp, just wait for him to get out of bed tomorrow.” Ariyah grumbled to herself and then agreed:

“He’ll look worse than Rian.”

“ _Hey!_ ”

“You won’t grow it long enough for braids and you won’t cut it short enough to look decent! Do you even _own a brush?_ ”

“Raveena brushes my hair and it looks just fine, thank you.”

“How Mamae gave us Saya, Damen, _and_ Jenna after _you_ started to talk, the Maker only knows.” Ariyah clicked her tongue and Jylan could hear his brothers seeing the last of the guests out of the house, leaving only Neria behind as even Zevran chose to step out for the day. “You do it then, I’m not going to risk hurting that- _mark_.”

“If it’s alright with…” Neria trailed off, then touched Jylan’s shoulder and rubbed across it warmly. “Do you trust me enough, Jeevan?”

“Yes.”

Dirth came to him from where Sanjay and Tahir had been making a diligent effort to sponge off his dog’s muzzle and paws. Dirth did not look much cleaner for their efforts but his hound was also much calmer, and rested his chin on Jylan’s knee for a few moments, looking up with a quiet keen as Neria’s hands began to spread lather in small circles through his hair. He pet his dog’s head and face calmly, and did not move his head as the razor began to touch and pull across his scalp.

Neria worked slowly and shifted between sides, left, then right, then left again, building some sort of simple pattern of rows. It had been so long since Jylan’s head had been shaved even in parts that he was no longer familiar with the sensation. It did not seem to him that she was taking everything off, but that could have been because she was working from the bottom and back, not taking the blade from the edge of his hairline and pulling back like the Templars had every time the apprentice dorms needed a delousing. She did not cut him, and when the razor reached the place where the mark Ariyah did not like was sitting, she drew the razor’s edge easily across it.

Fixing his hair did not bring the same pleasurable sensations as having his hair brushed, and he understood that he was not likely to experience having his hair brushed again for some time. Still, her attention was firmly focused on him and her touch moved gently over his scalp and neck. Neria shaved from his temples as well but left the top of his head untouched, and finally used a towel and bowl of water to rinse and wipe away any stray hairs or remaining lather. His head and neck felt very cold, and his shoulders were sore from resting with his chin down for so long.

“Wait- _she_ did it?” Samar demanded with an offended sting in his voice as Jylan reached up and felt the back and sides of his head.

“Oh, _Samar.”_ Ariyah complained, “Pick your battles, brother.”

“ _She’s not his wife!_ ”

“And he’s not a sailor!” She shouted back, now very cross with him. “I didn’t cut Eli’s hair before he left last time and he came back anyways. I didn’t want to do it and Neria did a fine job, let it be.”

“You don’t just give a razor to some woman and let her hack at your brother!”

“Sa- _mar_ ,” Ariyah’s voice hit a dark and threatening low. Jylan nudged Dirth awake where he had fallen asleep with his head in his lap, and stood up with an inadvertent hiss of pain cutting between his teeth. His knees still hurt terribly.

“I-” Neria tried to cut into the brewing argument but retreated instead, coming to Jylan’s side and taking his arm to help support him. Rian was quickly there as well, and for once he did not seem nervous or upset by the turbulence in their home. “I didn’t- I wasn’t trying to offend…”

“Sailors and their superstitions, you know?” Rian quipped lightly. “Jeevan, lets get you in bed for now, yes?”

“You’re in a good mood,” Neria pointed out.

“I met the Queen,” Rian answered with awe, “and she let my little brother out of prison, no questions asked. And the _etunashol_ is _dead._ ”

“And you’re drunk?” The midwife asked.

“And I’m a _little_ drunk,” his brother giggled.

“Wives, sisters, mothers- _that’s it!_ ” Samar shouted. His reaction was excessive and Jylan felt a headache begin to nudge at him between Rian and Neria.

“ _And_ Chantry mothers, and Chantry sisters,” Ariyah bit back. “And _lay sisters_ , and you forgot aunts, grandmothers, and _midwives!_ ”

“ _She’s not a fucking midwife, she’s some **forest witch**!”_ Jylan stopped walking and ignored the tugging on his sore arms from the two helping him.

“And she has helped me.” His intrusion in the argument caught their attention. “Samar, your words are thoughtless.”

“No,” his brother cut back, raising a hand and pointing at him in a scolding manner. “Between the two of us I’m the only one who’s _thinking_.” Samar’s adherence and respect to traditional methods and superstitions did not necessitate this condescending attitude.

“If you are angry over my hair, then you are better off directing such emotion to the guards who cut it in the first place, not Neria.”

“ _No,_ ” Samar barked at him, “ _Midwife Surana_ , not _Neria_. You quit using her name!”

“Are _you_ drunk?” Rian asked in a confused, friendly way. Jylan looked at Neria beside him.

“Does my use of your given name offend you?”

“No?” She said, but then stumbled over herself with: “Don’t pull me into this! Samar, I- I’m sorry that I broke an alienage tradition, I didn’t know, I just-”

“Shut up, and quit touching him!” His brother snapped, and Ariyah shouted his name firmly again for his rudeness. Neria’s touch jumped from Jylan’s arm and she recoiled. He did not know if she was afraid of his brother necessarily, but made his decision and stepped between her and Samar anyways.

“You are returning her kindness thus far with rudeness, Samar, and it is beneath you.”

“Rian, take him upstairs.”

“I’m too drunk for this,” Rian complained, and did not move.

“I will retire upstairs after you have either explained your behaviour or otherwise ceased to act in this manner,” Jylan said. “Neria has offered nothing but assistance and kindness since my arrest. There is no cause or justification for your attitude.”

“Oh, _I’ve_ got attitude,” his eldest brother sneered.

“Yes! You do!” Ariyah snapped at him. “Unless you want to spend the night with Hallin, then shape-up!”

“This doesn’t concern you, sister.” Samar’s response was insufficient.

“If your issue concerns me then I request that you speak plainly of whatever the matter is, Samar, because you are accomplishing nothing but conflict.”

“You _know_ what the issue is.”

“If that were true then I would not question you as I am.” He stated. “I do not understand the issue you have taken against Neria, and if you do not explain yourself then I will not have cause to compromise with you.”

“ _That woman,_ ” his brother rudely emphasized, pointing at Neria but as Jylan was between them the gesture lost some of its potency. “Isn’t going to start a _repeat_ of Vigil’s fucking Keep!”

Their siblings clucked and muttered at Samar in confusion, with Neria making the shocked admission that she had never been near the Storm Coast, nevermind Amaranthine Arling. Jylan was tired, he was fatigued and his pains were coming back as he continued to stand here, but now he understood.

“You are comparing Neria to An’eth,” he stated his understanding and Samar’s temper festered a bit deeper.

“Don’t use _her_ name either!”

“Your concerns are baseless, Samar. The situation is incomparable.”

“ _Bullshit!_ ” his brother shouted, “Dalish warden, Dalish witch- I said _quit touching him!_ ”

“He’s in _pain_ ,” Neria argued, though not as strongly as she was entitled to. The chair Jylan had already been seated in was brought over as he had not managed much distance from it, and her hand returning to his arm was what prompted the command from Samar. “If you’re going to argue, do it sitting down.”

As it would please her to have him seated, Jylan-

“ _Don’t_ order him around!” Samar shouted, providing an additional reason for Jylan to consent to the matter. His brother’s composure was fracturing over the simple and unimportant matter of a chair.

“Neria does not have the necessary power or authority to command me, Samar.” He made his argument firmly, his hand on the back of said chair and leaning some of his weight on it as Rian released his other arm and took a step away from the shouting. “She is not a Grey Warden and I am not beholden to her in any way. I am no longer bound to the conventions of-”

“So what!? Does that suddenly fix you?” His brother yelled back. “You’re still fucking tranquil and you’re the first person anyone out to get this family is gonna aim for! _Witch_ , get out of this house!”

“Samar that’s enough!” Ariyah shouted, stomping to Neria’s side behind Jylan and openly protecting her.

“ _Fuck’s sake,_ brother, she just put Jeevan’s arm back together,” Rian complained in a louder voice. “Visiting him in prison and helping bring Dirth back from the fort-? Where the hell is all this coming from?”

“Because it’s the exact same thing!” Samar bellowed over them, “It’s the exact same _fucking thing!_ It’s just like what Athras did and Jeevan, _Andraste as my witness,_ you’re not stumbling into the same trap twice!”

“Neria is my friend,” he insisted, which was a mistake because now like his siblings he was openly engaging with his brother’s temper, fuelling it, and making the situation worse.

“And is she gonna stay that way when she kicks _the shit out of you!?_ ” Samar hollered and advanced.

“An’eth only harmed me once as an accident,” Jylan stated and it did not stop his brother from stomping towards him. Rather than permit his dog to act as a guard, Jylan stepped away from the chair to keep Dirth behind him along with Neria. “I was bound to obey her as a Grey Warden, Samar. Stop misattributing my behaviour to unrelated-”

“ _Stop_ ,” Samar hissed, driving up right in front of him and stopping with only inches to spare, “-and wait for you get _taken blind advantage of_ again because you’ve got no fucking backbone left! You’re gonna let her shock you with her fucking magic, rip through you and try to kill you- just because she _asked?_ Work you like a dog day and night _without pay-_ ”

“-If that is a reference to my efforts during the birth, Samar, then consider the alternative which would have overwhelmed your friends and neighbours without my intervention.”

“ _Fuck the neighbours!_ No one in this damned alienage gives a shit about our family!” Neria gave a shit about their family.

“You rallied your shipmates and friends to defend our home while I was in prison,” Jylan argued back, “Unless I have been misinformed. You cannot write off the entire community when they are nearly as afraid of the Hahren as you are.”

“ _I’m not afraid!_ ”

“You are correct and I mis-spoke: you are terrified.”

Samar rushed and grabbed him with both hands, but as they were the same height there was nothing for his brother to gain by trying to drag him up by the collar of his shirt. The grip and the shaking which followed both hurt him, as did the sudden outcry from Ariyah and Rian who rushed in with alarm to separate them. Jylan raised both arms to warn them back but did not look away from Samar.

“You’re gonna _watch the way_ you fucking _talk to me_.”

“There is little I can do to disrespect you further than what your own behaviour has already inflicted, Samar.” He made his statement and Rian barked at him to watch his mouth and stop making things worse. “Does this work on others? Do you expect it to work on me?” He gestured to the hard grip Samar still had on him, the way they were barely a breath away from each other. “I am not afraid of the Arl of Amaranthine. I am not afraid of the Formari Guildmaster. I am not afraid of Hahren Masao. I am not afraid of the city guards, Samar, and I am not afraid of you. Let go of me.”

He was not capable _of_ the fear which would otherwise have curbed his tongue and permitted his brother to act however he pleased. Samar released him with a shove, angry and shaken and in tatters from the stress of the last few days.

“Fucking _freak_.” And he took those emotions out on Jylan before storming away with only his cloak and the sound of the front door slamming behind him.

Rian hurried to Jylan and wrapped him up in a warm, relieved hug, whispering that he was stupid and a fool and that Rian would go and bring Samar home and-

“If you permit him to have space and time to calm down, then I believe he will return without the need for encouragement.” Jylan offered his advice on the matter, his chin resting on his brother’s shoulder as they embraced. “If he does not return before evening, then I agree that it would be wise for you to search for him as you know his haunts and habits better than I. However, first I would suggest giving him space.”

“Prison either gave you stones, brother, or a reason to show them.”

“Prison was much too cold for that, Rian.”

He made his brother laugh. It was hoarse and frightened, but still a laugh.

“I’m sorry,” Ariyah was murmuring behind them and Jylan looked aside to where his sister was trying to calm Neria. “I’m _sorry_ for him- I don’t know _where_ any of that _came from_ and Neria you’ve helped us and you’ve been a _friend_ and I-”

Neria was in tears. She was fighting between pushing Ariyah’s hands away from her and trying to wipe away the wet tracks building from her eyes. Her cheeks were pink from distress and she was shaking, Dirth sitting next to her and gazing up with soft, worried noises crawling through his throat.

“I knew he hated me-” she choked. “I knew he did- I knew he was mad about- the brand- and I knew he hadn’t forgiven me for Satinalia _but-_ ”

“Oh Maker, Neria, don’t make excuses for him!” Ariyah insisted, embarrassed and concerned and trying to help although Neria would not let her. “ _Jeevan_ was the one to argue him down and that’s how you _know_ everything he said is garbage! He’s never- Jeevan I’ve never _seen_ you fight with him before, not _ever_.”

Jylan’s legs hurt. It would have been far easier on his body if he remained in Rian’s embrace and let his brother help him up the stairs to his waiting bed so he could finally rest. It made sound, logical sense for him to go that route now, but he redirected himself on purpose. He pulled slowly out of the hug with Rian, who remained close and attentive at his side, and looked at the women.

“It is overwhelmingly wiser to avoid engaging with Samar’s temper,” he stated, his legs aching terribly. “It leads to a shorter period of conflict and allows him to calm and humble himself much sooner. I was wrong to engage with him, but his was both the greater trespass and insult. On my brother’s behalf, Neria, I apologize for his hurtful words to you.”

Neria was looking at him but no calmer for his apology, her eyes still releasing tear after tear down her face despite her efforts. She was flushed and distraught.

“Who is An’eth?” She demanded from him, then choked hard and swallowed with a sudden twitch and fidget. “What the hell did she do to you?”

“Like Samar’s attitude, the comparison is baseless and unfair to you, Neria…” she had made a request of him and he decided that he would fulfill it. His voice did not trail off so he could consider this decision, it was already made. His voice trailed off because- “I’m going to fall.”

“What?” Rian aske- Jylan fell. His legs simply gave out and he dropped. It hurt, and the sudden commotion it caused was distressing, but he could not rise again under his own power. The pain had spread up and down from his knees to capture both his ankles and his hips. He was in a great deal of pain and it took Rian’s labouring assistance to get him up again and moving to the stairs.

“To bed, _put him in bed!_ ” Ariyah scolded behind them. “Prison for three days and now all this garbage and misery with Samar! _In bed, and then he needs to eat!_ ”

His bed was soft, so much softer than it had felt before. The wool and straw were so soft after the hard icy stones of the cell and Jylan felt much of his body relax before Rian finished pulling the blankets up over him. Neria was still upset, still barely in control of herself, but she helped his brother tuck him into bed and spread another quilt over him, the weight and warmth were well appreciated. His head felt cold against the pillow and it was very strange to feel the fabric of the pillowcase against his skin instead of hair.

Dirth made it to the bed and Neria encouraged his dog with a gentle word to jump up beside him. She helped Dirth lift the blankets and hide under them, his massive dog almost big enough to take the entire bed for himself. Dirth was warm, and needed rest as much as Jylan did. Under the blankets he found his dog’s head and laid a hand on him. Dirth moved with the touch and pressed his muzzle down against Jylan’s shoulder and chest, and his arm was able to move around and hold his dog, hand coming down along his neck. His hound settled and relaxed. Good. This was good.

“You do look sharp like that,” Rian told him, giving a smile and an affectionate rub with his hand over the shaved side of Jylan’s head. “Rest, Jeevan. It’s been a hard day.” His brother kissed the bridge of his nose, avoiding the brand on purpose, and then he rose to leave.

“I’ll bring back something for him,” Rian said to Neria, who was still in the room and now rubbing the large blanket-covered lump that was Dirth. “Stay, or go, or whatever you’re comfortable with, Midwife. You’re welcome here as far as Ariyah and I are concerned, and him too, obviously.”

“I won’t be long,” Neria answered in a soft voice. “They both need rest. Just a few minutes, I think?” Rian only showed her a palm and then nodded, quietly leaving the room and letting the sound of his footsteps carry him away back downstairs. The house felt calm now.

“You argued with him because of me.” Jylan had not realized his eyes were closed until he could not see Neria on the far side of Dirthamen’s blanketed shoulders. He blinked and found her again, sitting on the edge of his bed. “You were in _prison_ this morning, and yet you came home and got in a fight with your brother- because of _me?_ ”

“His behaviour was unworthy of him,” Jylan answered, his voice heavy in his mouth. He was very tired and for the first time in several days he felt comfortable. “You are a friend, and I spoke to you of gratitude before the guards took me to the trial. It would not do to ignore my own pledge just because Samar took imaginary issue with it.”

“It’s not _imaginary_ ,” she argued quietly, not looking at him, but instead at the breathing lump between them. “He could have hurt you.”

“Samar is passionate,” he told her, remembering what Zevran had told him once about his brothers. “He loves very strongly, and feels everything deeply. I have been asked to judge him more so by his actions than his reasons, but both are of value now. He was angry but did not act on it, therefore I should not censure him. His words were harmful and wrong, but his reason is one I cannot fault him for, not entirely.”

Neria made a very bold choice and Jylan watched the hard moment pass where she thought it through. She did not look at him, and took a steeling breath. With her hands braced on the bed, she kicked both feet up and then laid down on her side, facing him, with Dirth’s large body between them and for all intents and purposes, sound asleep in the warmth.

She extended a hand and began to rub his dog’s back and shoulders through the quilts and blankets. Dirth was certainly asleep as he didn’t move or change his breaths at all, but the kind gesture continued. Neria had included him in her comment to Rian about how much Jylan needed to rest.

Jylan shifted and rolled onto his side as well, facing her and his hidden mabari.

“Who is An’eth?” She repeated quietly.

Jylan understood that he did not have to answer her. That he was not obligated did not present itself as sufficient reason to deny her.

“I considered her a friend,” Jylan answered her, though he knew it was sparse. “She is a Fereldan Grey Warden and a former hunter of her Dalish Clan. She wears the marks of the God of Secrets on her face, and it was out of consideration for her kindness that my mabari received the same name.”

Neria remained quiet, but a strange, unreadable expression crossed her face and blanketed her pale blue eyes, making them lose focus. She nudged closer to him on the bed, but it was only so that she could extend her arm further around Dirth’s shoulder and settle like that.

“She hurt you,” she whispered softly. “She’s the reason you left Amaranthine?”

“Yes, but it is a complicated series of circumstances and events to explain, Neria, and the results of them form a point of great shame and contention for Samar. I understand better than he does what happened, but he feels it in a way I cannot replicate. If you desire to hear the matter in full then I am willing to oblige you.”

The quiet returned, and Neria again came closer. It was possible that she intended to stroke his face or his now much shorter hair, but that is not what happened. She hugged her arm around Dirth, presumably not too tightly as his dog did not stir, and she closed her eyes briefly to nuzzle down on the blankets over the dog’s neck. Jylan felt the pressure and warmth of this gesture across his hidden wrist and made no comments which could be construed as discouragement for her actions. He understood that it was unintentional and not a gesture of affection for him personally, but rather one exclusively for Dirth.

“Not now,” she said after a quiet pause. “You’re exhausted and you need to sleep. I should let you sleep.”

He could not think of an appropriate way to suggest she remain here without risking his meaning being misinterpreted as unsettling or strange. He could not rationalize why she should stay. The idea was appealing, but beyond that there was no justification. The risk of making her uncomfortable was too great, so therefore he said nothing on the subject.

His eyes felt very heavy. His bed was very comfortable. He was hungry, but finally very warm. The bed shifted when she climbed off of it but he could not will his eyes open again. He was very tired.

Her hand brushed across his shaved temple and her nails combed warmly through the remaining few inches of length left at the top of his head. He felt a relaxed breath leave his lungs and his body felt very heavy, but in a comfortable way. She pet his head and hair again, then leaned close to him and touched her lips to his temple.

He did not know the appropriate way to request that she repeat either or both gestures on him. He could not rationalize the request beyond the fact that it was physically pleasing. He could not impose upon her like that.

He could not ask her to do anything anyways because he woke up a handful of hours later with Ariyah nudging him awake so he could eat a hot, rich soup of rice and lentils and onions. Tahir climbed up and walked across the bed to see if Dirthamen would play with him, which his hound did not seem keen on, and Anu would not settle until she succeeded in climbing into Jylan’s lap and hugging him close as he ate. Raveena said she thought his hair looked very nice and kissed his cheek gently. His nephew Sanjay did not come into the room.

He fell back to sleep feeling warm, comfortable, and safe.

The next morning his pain was greatly reduced, but still present in the bruises which he could now clearly examine and make note of their healing progress. He slept late and when he went downstairs it was due primarily to hunger.

Samar was at the table waiting for him.

They apologized to each other. There had existed alternative methods and statements Jylan could have chosen to make instead of the direct and offensive tone of yesterday, and he acknowledged this. It would have been much easier to simply tell his brother that he had been ‘ _too pissed off’_ to think clearly, which was Ariyah’s suggestion, but it was not accurate. He had been weak and in pain yes, but not angry. Short-sighted and blunt from fatigue, certainly, but not pissed.

“That doesn’t change the fact that you were wrong about _my_ feelings too,” his brother grumbled to him, shamefaced and humbled as expected after his intolerable attitude yesterday. “You were close, but the phrase is _fucking terrified_ of the Hahren. And I am. And you’re right. But I’m still not letting Surana near you.”

“I must insist that An’eth and Neria are incomparable to each other.”

“That bitch could order you around because she was a Warden and you were a servant _to_ the Grey Wardens, yeah, I get that part, but-”

“It goes much further than that, Samar,” Jylan continued to insist, the two of them sharing a hot pan of fresh flatbread and a block of hard cheese. “Despite the length of my acquaintanceship with An’eth, I have reviewed the matter personally. While I have no verifiable proof of the following assumption, it is reasonable and very likely the case: I do not think she believed, or was capable of understanding, what Tranquility really is.”

“A headache.” Samar’s answer gave him pause because while it was an oversimplification, he was not wrong. “Just answer me now before things can get complicated again: do you have a thing for the midwife?”

That was a complicated question, primarily due to his brother’s avoidance of the words love, like, care for, long for, desire, or any other attribution of romantic attachment. The problematic terms were implied, but not outright stated. He was taking too long to say no.

“I have not yet completed or even begun work on Neria’s requested dream ward.”

“Uncle Jee that’s not what he _meant_ ,” Sanjay complained from his spot by the fire, his writing plank braced on his lap. “A _thing_ , not a real _thing_. Do you _like-_?”

“I must go and acquire the materials for the dream ward,” Jylan interrupted. “Sanjay, will you assist me?”

“ _No_.” Good. He readied himself quickly and left with Samar repeatedly asking, in a steadily louder voice, if Jylan was in love with the midwife. To prevent Samar from following him out of the house with his query Jylan was required to give the only appropriate answer on their family’s doorstep.

“It is impossible; I am Tranquil.” He then made a mistake by continuing to speak, something he should have known better than to do after yesterday’s upset: “Do not embarrass her by suggesting such an insult. She is young and spirited and beautiful and it bears no benefit to inspire anxiety in her regarding something which does not exist, or to complicate her existing courtship interests by implying a change in behaviour which has not occurred.”

Samar laughed at him outright.

“ _Courtship interests?_ ” His brother wheezed, “Jeevan she’s a lonely, crabby old witching woman who just _happens_ to still be young. No family, a fake name, and she’s the only one Masao hates more than us- why would _any elf_ in the quarter want her?”

“Samar!” Ariyah disapproved harshly from over her sewing, next to Sanjay’s writing. Rian was at work and Raveena was standing at the door with Dirthamen, eager to go with him for the shopping trip Sanjay had snubbed. The other two children were off playing.

His brother’s words did not inspire shock. Shock had come with a stillness and sheering tear in focus. Jylan did not feel shock because he took the words as they came and he coupled them with things he knew and other things he had not considered. For example: what Neria’s reputation in the alienage actually entailed.

She was afraid of Masao although Jylan had never seen the two of them interact. She was friends with Ariyah but he had never seen or heard her speak of any other acquaintances. He had assumed that like Rian she was not wedded because her financial situation was not conducive to the establishment of a child-rearing household, but she had made near three silver from the birth Jylan had been present for, twenty copper for her herbs and prayer for their dead nephew, and she earned enough to pay him as her chemist. Neria had income, and he understood she had inherited the house she lived in from the previous midwife who had died two years ago. She could not cook, but she had income and property.

He had not considered that Masao’s disapproval and the existence of her magic would be enough to completely isolate her from the community, but she was also a newcomer: she had told Zevran she had only come to Gwaren three years ago. It had seemed far more likely that Neria was simply dismissive of marriage and domesticity, or that she felt distrustful of the alienage’s labouring men, not that the matter was external and directed towards her. There was no reason why both possibilities could not exist together, except that it was foolish for her to be overlooked considering her necessary contribution to the quarter, her property, her income, and her beauty. And her health. And her good humour. And her honest nature. And her kindness.

“Because they should,” was his answer to Samar before he took Raveena and Dirth with him out into the cold, clear afternoon light. He did not love the midwife, but he should have.

Raveena clasped his hand and skipped and sang in her bright red wool coat. She occasionally slipped in the ice and powder of another snowy day and required that grip on his arm to remain on her feet. No matter how many times she fell, she did not stop dancing or smiling. Dirth still had red marks on his paws and face from his bonds, but they did not hurt as Neria had tended them already.

They went to market. There was little their family needed but Raveena insisted on a jar of apple preserves which Jylan permitted the purchase of. The vendors knew he did not serve a noble house but they also remembered that his coin was good, which permitted him to barter the price down. Two small bags of roasted, husked, and salted chestnuts followed more pestering from his niece. She thought it was her watery brown eyes and the face she pulled where the tips of her ears dropped, but factually it was the negligible cost of the treats and the condition that she share them with her brothers and sister.

Raveena _also_ insisted on a hoop of steel wire which Jylan denied her, as he needed copper wire instead. A round, narrow cut of hazel wood was purchased for the ward, the circular grain completely in tact, and Jylan instructed his niece to put the carved oak cane back because yes it was well made, but it was not for sale and the vendor required it back. He confirmed the next day’s order of firewood for the household and called his niece to come with him, but she was now involved with trying to coax the cat two stalls down to come to her. Dirth barked and the cat ran, and Jylan picked his niece up to prevent further mishaps. None of this was unusual for taking a six-year-old to market.

He transferred her to his back when they made to return to the alienage: this made it easier to carry both her and their purchases. Raveena pulled down his hood and rubbed the shaved parts of his head with open curiosity, placing cool, chapped-lip kisses where she liked. Not enough of his black bangs had survived Ariyah’s scissors and Neria’s razor to hide the brand as well as before. His niece thought it amusing to poke and prod at the scar on the back of his head. He did not know what that one looked like and did not ask her, focusing instead on not slipping on the ice underfoot.

He came back down the alley and passed the Hahren. Masao had ashes on his thin cheeks and an ugly yellow tint to his skin, clear signs of his awful temper and violent mourning. The old elf did not look up until he saw Dirth, and Dirth’s answer was to duck around Jylan’s legs to be further away in the narrow lane. His dog began to growl with his ears back and down, hackles rising and gait more svelte and cautious.

Masao looked at Jylan, who was already focused on him, and the old man gave a sudden start and lost his footing on the ice, slipping back with a cry and dropping on his back. He did not bash his head open and did not immediately expire from the blow, merely exhaled in a rough breath of pain and stared skyward before he started moving his arms and legs to get up again.

“The way is not well tended.” Jylan stepped over the Hahren’s sprawled limbs and continued home.

It was noteworthy that he returned and set Raveena down in a tense living space. Samar and Ariyah were looking at each other with the nervous echo of an important conversation interrupted. Sanjay’s writing board was abandoned by the fire and the boy had either run off to find friends in the snow or was upstairs with his younger siblings. Raveena hung her coat by the fire to dry and scurried up the stairs to check if her siblings would share the nuts with her.

With the children gone and the three of them now alone, Jylan looked to his brother and sister. Ideally they would not rekindle the topic Jylan had departed from.

“Masao was here,” his brother said, Ariyah’s hands clasped in front of her.

“Yes, he was laying on his back on the ice.” Jylan reported this fact to the surprise and good humour of his siblings. When Ariyah spoke however, her voice was hoarse from worries:

“He’s demanded that we pay for Eli’s pyre and prayers.”

“He may demand what he likes,” Jylan answered, “That does not oblige us to listen.”

“We can afford it,” Samar said, supposedly to lend strength to their sister’s flagging condition. “Or, what I’m saying is: _you can_.”

“Unless it is a pyre of imported logs and a funerary procession of several hundred people, affordability is not the issue.” His siblings had opened the Cherrywood lock box in order to find his documents. Jylan had not checked the box himself to count the money and establish if anything had been removed, but it did not matter: there were five gold coins hidden in the false bottom of the box which required a key he had not given to the others, plus the three gold that had been in the open compartment, plus the rest of Jylan’s silver, minus the three pieces which had been in his purse in his room on First Day. They not only knew he had money, but now they had an accurate gauge of how much. “The issue is that there is no justification for our family to suffer the offense of burning the elf who terrorized our sister and her children for so long.”

“Jeevan,” Samar raised a hand to caution him. It was unnecessary. “I _agree_ , you know I do. They can cut him up for the birds for all I care, but this is _it_.” His brother stopped talking and did not elaborate.

“I do not understand. What is it?”

“ _The end.”_ Ariyah answered, and she looked at him with focus. “We pay for the funeral and end this whole sordid business on the right foot. I play the widow for a month and a day, the Hahren has no one to extort money on behalf of, no one to force back into our house, and it’s _done_.”

“Does Hahren Masao have any other kin?” Jylan asked.

“No, none.” Ariyah shook her head. “His wife was childless and passed a few winters back, his sister was the Midwife before Neria, and Eli’s parents died when he was young. Now he’s gone and Jerrin is alone.” Unbidden, he was reminded of the fall the Hahren had taken moments ago.

“When the Hahren ages to the point of infirmity, to whom will he turn for assistance and aid?” His sister’s eyes widened and her face grew long with dread.

“To me,” she hushed.

“Then the matter should require no further consideration: this is not the end, it is merely another link in the chain leashing our family to his.” He explained this and, unexpectedly, was listened out in full. “If we consent to the cost of the funeral then he will use your good gesture as extended proof of kinship. When he is too old to live on his own, he will pressure you to let him live here, and the community will expect and tolerate no less from you. If you are to be free of him, sister, it will be now or not at all.”

His sister began to cry, which caused considerable alarm in Samar.

“I was afraid of Eli, Jeevan, but I still _married him_ ,” she said, covering her face with her hands. “He still gave me my _children_. Is he just going to rot in the Chantry? Is that what my boys are going to have to live with- that their father didn’t even leave this world right?”

“The Hahren stole over forty silver from our household,” Jylan reminded her. “If Eli should rot it will be due to his uncle’s negligence.”

“ _Jeevan,_ ” his sister pleaded, her distress now amplified. He was not obligated to change his position. She was concerned about the lingering disgrace of her ex-husband’s death and funeral, overlooking the fact that he had died by choking on his own drunken vomit in the snow.

“If the money should arise from another source and the funeral fulfill whatever criteria the Hahren has selected, will that put your concern for the children at rest?” She was not calmed by his words, which supported the authenticity of her distress. She was not crying to make him change his mind, she was crying because she was afraid.

“I don’t _know_.”

“I will not allow him to conflate our family with more money spent on his nephew.”

“Jeevan,” Samar pleaded now, “You’re the only elf in Gwaren who _has_ the money for this! Whatever it costs, I’ll pay you back with my next contract. Just- _please_. I hate it too, I hate it more than anything, but-”

“How much will it cost?” He did not know the expense of a funeral for a drunk, presumably illiterate, sailor. “What amount did Masao demand?”

“…nearly sixty silver,” Samar answered him. Jylan could not have heard that correctly. Sixty silver, after the infant’s funeral had cost only sixty copper. “I have… I don’t… I can pay _part_ of it, I can’t-”

“How much did our mother’s funeral cost?” He interrupted. Sixty silver was the same amount Jylan and Samar had been paid in total from the Lady Freeborn two months ago. Fifty had been Samar’s wages for a six month contract, ten for the repair of the dwarven glowstones. Sixty for the funeral and forty for Saya’s stolen dowry would amount to an entire sovereign’s worth of stolen and extorted money taken from their family _in less than one year_.

“Thirty- I think?” Ariyah asked in a quiet, cautious voice.

The Hahren was demanding double. For such a sum, Jylan could pay Master Arainai to simply kill the Hahren and be done with it. The only plausible argument for the Hahren to receive his unjustifiable demand was if there was some tangible and forthright benefit for Jylan, his family, or the alienage at-

“I will handle the matter.”

His siblings mistakenly lit up at the suggestion.

“You’ll pay it?”

“I did not say that, I said I would handle the matter.” He repeated himself and then went directly upstairs. The children were in Rian’s room, laughing and eating the roasted nuts from the market. Jylan went into his own room and closed the door.

The lockbox had not been replaced in its hidden spot last night. He opened it using the key which had been left next to it on his dresser. He had no cord or chain to string the key and Amara’s amulet to again, and his neck still bore the shallow welt from where the old cord had torn away. He took the wooden amulet in hand and spun the top of it around between his fingers. It moved smoothly and well. It sat easily in his palm. He placed it in his pocket and then reached into the lock-box.

He withdrew a small velvet pouch and forty-five silver pieces. He would have broken them into coppers but the bag was not large enough. Sixty was exhortative and forty or thirty would have been too few, forty-five was his compromise.

He stowed the money in the leather satchel Neria had made for him, next to the cross-section of a thick hazelwood branch, the weave of copper wire, and then the hide roll which carried a small collection of his brewing tools. Under his bed but not in the safe space was the small collection of formari tools, and Jylan collected this by the handle.

If the money needed to be paid then it would not come from the Ashera family, or at least it would not come in any way which could be traced back to them. The contention when Jylan refused to pay would cause the outstanding rift between the Asheras and the Hahren to fracture dangerously, requiring an external balm to calm. Whoever made that peace offering and was willing to broker a ceasefire would be looked well upon by the community at large.

It would improve her standing considerably.

“Are you going to go pay him?” Ariyah bombarded him as Jylan went back downstairs, still wearing his cloak and carrying his tools.

“No, I am going to work.”

All Jylan had to do was convince Neria to go along with it.

 


	43. Copper Marigolds (repost)

 

Neria took to Jylan’s suggestion as expected.

“You’re out of your _fucking mind_.”

Entirely as expected.

“Let Masao _choke_ ,” they were in her house and Jeevan was upstairs tending to the pigeons on the roof. “And not on a _copper’s worth_ of your money, or _mine_.”

“I do not expect you to forfeit any of your own coin in this venture,” Jylan clarified, again, but it did not calm her.

“You’re not paying to burn the man who _beat your sister!_ ” Her powerful sentiments on the matter were appreciated. Her reaction spoke very well to her character, and it would have been exhausting to antagonize her further.

“While I am obligated to return the matter to your attention at a later time, for now I would know if you have any use for my presence today.”

“You-” his change in topic was apparently too abrupt for her, because Neria gave a brief start at his question. “You just spent three days in a cold cell, and you want to- sorry,” she closed her eyes with a fast correction. “You expect to _work?_ ”

“If there is anything at all which I can do to ease the burden of your work and obligations, then I will do so,” Jylan answered her. Her self-correction had come quickly and without disrupting their exchange. Her mindfulness was noted.

“What if I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be on your feet working today?”

“Then there are a multitude of tasks I can accomplish while seated.” Neria’s outraged flush was fading, and she pulled a hesitant smile before speaking.

“With a mug of beer in your hand?” She offered.

“Do you brew?” He had not known this. Her offers were usually for vodka or wine, things which required purchase at the market.

“Not as well as Heshra did, but it’s better than my baking.” That was an exceptionally low bar for her to set but he did not say as much.

“Who is Heshra?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t know, would you?” If he had known then he would not have asked, but he also did not say this. “My- the previous Midwife. Heshra Masao.”

“Hahren Jerrin Masao’s sister. This house belonged to the Hahren’s family?” Neria fumbled her hands together, but then indicated the table and chairs.

 

“Have a seat, I’ll pour you some and we can talk.” He consented to this.

Jeevan’s spellbook was laying closed on the table with the rod of charcoal the boy had been using. It was unlike both Neria and his nephew to leave such a condemning item out in the open when not in use. Jylan was in the act of stowing the spellbook back under the boy’s cot where it belonged when Jeevan returned from the roof, his hair wind-swept and cheeks blushed from the cold.

“Uncle Jee, look,” he said after handing the collected eggs to Neria, and then reclaiming his book from Jylan. The boy thumped it down on the table and flipped quickly through the opening pages, finding what he wanted and pointing at a fully rendered glyph sketched and annotated with the proper numbers. “Did I do it right? Is it right? I put them _all_ together and- and I don’t know if it’s right.”

It was an elementary mark for summoning an orb of light in the palm of one’s hand. Once this spell was mastered, it could be manipulated and reduced in numerous ways. The most harmful rendition of the glyph was the sphere of a fireball’s head. The least harmful was used in an apprentice game. At least two players would pay attention as one snapped their fingers and simultaneously conjured an orb of light in a particular colour over their fingertip. The next player would snap and cast the same light plus a second one. Then a third orb would be added, and a fourth, and so on until the hand was completely full. Incorrectly copying the hand before yours had been grounds for mischievous taunting.

A tight, airless nothing became very hard in his chest, but the struggle passed. The memory was only a memory. That Jylan had enjoyed and excelled at the game did not matter.

“You will not know for certain until you cast it,” he told his nephew, and the young mage looked at the page in quiet awe as Neria returned and set a glass mug down in front of Jylan. She filled this from a ceramic decanter along with her own mug, and then sat down adjacent to him, Jeevan standing between them.

The beer was sweet and nutty, with a surprisingly light feeling in his mouth and when swallowed. Neria was a much better brewer than a baker or cook. The alcohol content was not high, and he did not require water which would have ruined the flavour.

Rather than work or speak of personal histories, Jylan dedicated the next hour to overseeing his nephew’s practice with Neria’s attentive presence. The boy did not ignore Neria, but his preference and dedicated need to have Jylan comment on and review his studies after only a few days’ absence spoke of great anxiety on the child’s behalf. His namesake’s struggle to remain focused on Jylan’s face instead of the brand now more clearly displayed on his forehead interfered with Jeevan’s focus, but he persevered. When he had successfully cast his spell a dozen times, drawn and practiced another ten values, and ultimately given himself a significant headache, the young mage teetered over to his cot and promptly laid down by the fire. Dirth removed his head from Jylan’s lap and went to rest on the boy instead.

Jylan’s beer was refilled again by Neria, who rested her chin on her hand and smiled at him when he drank from it easily. He lost all focus on the alcohol when she reached out and grasped his empty hand which was laying on the table between them. Her fingers curled over his and then moved to press over his wrist. He stopped drinking and put the mug down, her touch laid too far down his arm for him to return.

“We can talk of easy things, you and I,” she said quietly, but with hesitation. “Or hard things. Are you feeling better now than yesterday?”

“I slept and have eaten well since my release,” he answered truthfully. Her touch was warm. “Samar and I are reconciled from our argument as well. I am much better.”

“Good,” she said, her voice still hushed. “That’s very good.”

“The mention of Midwife Heshra has made you withdraw,” he observed because he did not know how to otherwise approach the subject. “If the subject is distasteful to you, then we are not required to open it.” She took an extended pause, looking from him to her glass and back again. She was shuffling through her words.

“What about An’eth?” Neria asked, rolling her neck and then taking what was likely the most straightforward path to what she wanted to say. Her hand withdrew from his arm. “I can’t keep Heshra hushed up but expect you to talk about the Grey Wardens.”

“The two are not entirely comparable as I am not able to become emotionally distraught over the subject.”

“But is it personal, what happened between you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I can’t, as your _friend_ , keep Heshra to myself but _permit you_ to talk about An’eth.” Now he understood.

“We may speak of difficult things, such as Heshra and An’eth, or we may speak of easy things.” She took another swallow of the beer she’d made and nodded to him. “What would you consider easy?”

“Anything that isn’t those two or the Hahren?” Neria suggested with a shrug. Jylan considered this, and then pulled his satchel up from the floor and opened it.

“This is the wood I selected for your dream ward.” He handed her the cross-section of hazel wood, pale and supple and freshly logged. The piece was a hand-length wide and about two inches deep. The odd cut had confused the vendor, but he had explained that it was for crafting and that had been sufficient. Neria held it, but her face displayed shock and it did not abate when she looked at him.

“You remember that?”

“I apologize that I have not been able to begin work yet.”

“You were _arrested_ , Jeevan! I don’t expect you to carve charms from inside a cell.” She spoke to him in a rush but ultimately kept the wood, setting her beer aside and turning the raw wood over between her hands before she looked at him. “What will it look like?”

“That depends on your preferences,” this topic was much easier, and when he opened a hand for her to give the wood back, she did so. He drew one finger around the outer grain, a perfect circle of raw hazel. “These three rings may be extracted to form a hoop for a ward which may be suspended from the ceiling, hung on the wall, or placed under your bed or cot.” Then he pressed his thumb down in the middle, on the darker heartwood. “Or the internal section may be fashioned into an amulet for you to wear. I would craft both, but do not have sufficient lyrium.”

“ _Both?_ No.” She shook her head with a soft grumble, and then stood to fetch something from her kitchen. “Which one needs less lyrium?”

“As both options are considered small objects, the amount of lyrium is nearly equal.” As Jylan spoke, she returned with a wooden plate bearing a wrinkled winter apple, a pad of soft goat’s cheese, and half a loaf of baker’s bread. The food was portioned into three as they spoke, and Jeevan would eat after his nap. “It is the strength and quality of the enchantment which dictates the quantity up to a certain amount. I have never enchanted a piece of armour, but expect it would take significantly more lyrium than a pendant or wall-hanging.”

“What kinds of enchantment _have_ you done?” Neria reclaimed her seat only after refilling the decanter, which then topped up both of their mugs as they lunched.

“As I am not a trained Formari, my experiences are limited.”

“That’s not what I asked.” This was true. Rather than offer a pardon for himself, he focused on the request itself.

“I wove a dream-ward from thread and willow branches for Warden Guerrin. For Warden Velanna, a ceramic ink-well which would not smash when dropped.” The ceramic had later exploded due to two misaligned marks, but he did not say this. “I repaired Warden Sephri’s spelled dagger, but that was not my own enchantment.” The colour of the light shed by the steel had changed from yellow to blue, and Jylan had never been able to explain the how or why of it. He did not say this either. “The lockbox I keep my money and documents in is also of my own creation, as is Saya’s amber keepsake- which I must return to her tomorrow when I see her.” It was currently in his room on his dresser. “The lock and keepsake work very well.”

“She showed me the amber at the feast,” Neria commented softly, looking at the glasses between them. “And I’ve seen the lockbox. I don’t know about what you made for the Wardens, but the keepsake and the box are both _beautiful_.” She reached out and touched the hazel wood again. “How would you decorate the wall-mount?” He had already considered this and his answer was easily given.

“With an inlay of copper and then a soldered web of the same copper wire through the hollow middle. I would carve the external edge with some kind of flower, perhaps roses or snowdrops, or an alternative pattern of your preference.” Her cheeks were pink, presumably from the alcohol despite its weak strength and pleasant flavour. She chewed through a crust of bead before answering him.

“That’s a lot of labour.”

“As I was a Compounder among the guildsmen, I am very familiar with the fabrication process of enchanted items.” He explained this to her simply to fill time, as she seemed overwhelmed by something and had stopped eating. “I was considered best suited to the task of managing reagents for their chemical combinations, but the guild makes considerably more money from its enchanted objects. As long as specific instructions and processes are adhered to then any Tranquil may fashion the parts of an item the Formari can enchant during the final stages of assembly.”

“I want the large one,” she said, still not looking at him and her words sounded thick and caught in her throat. “I want to see something beautiful before I fall asleep.”

“Then I would suggest-” No. No. He would not suggest that. He would not say that. It was grossly inappropriate of him and utterly unreasonable for him to give voice to it. No. He would not say _a mirror_.

“Suggest…?” She prompted him but no, Jylan would not say it. There was a bite of apple in his mouth anyways. “Suggest what, Jeevan?” No.

“-myrtle.” _No._ While not categorically worse, the suggestion did not break from the current topic. Provided Neria’s knowledge of herbs and their symbolism was as weak as her practice of chemistry and combination, then she would not make any uncomfortable connections.

“I’ve…” she frowned at him. She knew what myrtle meant and he would apologize promptly. “I’ve seen myrtle _leaves_ , but never the flower. Can you even cut something that delicate onto such a small surface?” She did not know what myrtle meant.

“You are correct.” She did not know and he did not apologize, because to do so would pique her interest and lead to questions to discover the trespass itself, which would expose the meaning, and ultimately lead into uncomfortable and dissatisfying territory. This blundering was Samar’s fault.  “Perhaps roses will be more suitable?” Roses meant love. “Or marigolds?” Marigolds meant sunshine.

“You can carve _marigolds_?” She did not believe him, her wide eyes and the slack hold on her mug said as much.

“I have done so before,” but they had not looked very good. As she had pointed out, the hoop would not be very large and that would not leave any room for trials or mistakes. “If not, then I can fold them from the wire.” This he had done before. He would beat the wire flat and cut it to form the petals before soldering them in place, or he would simply fold the beaten wire if the quality of the metal could sustain such measures.

“Copper marigolds?” She asked him, her lips tugged by a shy smile. “Are… are you sure?”

“Is the combination appealing to you?” Neria’s smile dropped and she stared at him for a beat. Before he could inquire as to the possibility that the Dalish taught a different system of floral symbols and meanings compared to the Andrastian Circles of Magi, she nodded.

“Yes, it is.” Her voice was soft. He did not know the symbolism and he did not know what he had stumbled into. If he asked then he would embarrass her.

“Then that will be the design?” He intoned a question, leaving the matter open for her to challenge. She took a particularly large swallow of her beer and then nodded again with a soft squeak.

“ _Yes_.”

Then that would be the design. Copper marigolds.

The log was boiled to soften it and the hoop was extracted, along with the heartwood which came out unexpectedly while he worked the larger pieces free. He did no actual work for Neria that day, and before he left he annoyed her by returning to the topic of who would pay for Eli Masao’s funeral.

“I said no.”

Jylan went home to his family’s pestering, which included Rian’s loud, but very brief, pledge to side with Jylan and let the Hahren suffer alone. Rian was shouted down and crumbled before his support could mean much.

The next day at the Twisted Tail he was welcomed by Bruiser the Doorman, who suggested in his mellow, unobtrusive way that Jylan should not have been beaten by the city guards because he wasn’t the sort of person who needed to be hit. Despite his name, appearance, and profession, Bruiser was far less combative than first impressions would imply. He was certainly capable of picking up most men and using them to hit other men who caused trouble for the brothel, but when he could obtain the same results by simply growling and looking large, he would do so.

Jylan worked only a portion of the morning, due primarily to Saya’s interruption. He was busy pulverizing several small cinnamon sticks when a pair of hands grasped his head, causing him to freeze and tense up until he understood what was happening. The hands began rubbing through his shorn hair and over the shaved rows in the back.

“Oh, I _like it!_ ” Saya cheered behind him, and when he turned his younger sister jumped at him and twisted her arms tight around his neck, hugging very tightly and swinging her feet up so he was made to carry all of her weight. He expected her to release him and bounce back down to the floor, but his did not happen. She did place her feet back on the floor, but she did not let go until after he returned the embrace with his arms pressed around her back. Even then, the hug lingered.

“I was so scared…” He held his sister until she was well enough to leave the embrace of her own accord, which took a number of minutes to accomplish. He returned the keepsake to her and she belted it securely around her wrist, pleased that it had assisted him. She then told him that she would be home later that week on the day of rest, but only until noon.

“Little Jeevan came by to see me, poor dear.” It was concerning that Jeevan so frequently left the alienage unattended. “I think the little ones will handle it alright. Anu hardly knew her father, save not to cry around him, much the same for Tahir. It’s the older three that have me worried, not enough to regret it, but enough to worry.”

That statement did not make sense.

“Is there cause for you to regret something?”

“No. I just said as much didn’t I?”

“You just said that you do not regret doing something, but what did you do?”

“Nothing I regret.” His sister stood up very straight with her chin up in the air, but this was not a sincere act for her. She was proud of something, hiding it only because she was required to. “What’s it called? Madeline Syrup?” A substance from the crushed carapaces of a red beetle known to feast on the feces of horses and other large livestock: the shitbug.

“Madeline Syrup is poisonous,” Jylan had brewed and bottled it for Zevran’s poison kits back at Vigil’s-

“Boy is it _ever_ ,” Saya was grinning.

Jylan took his sister by the hand and led her out of the kitchen, into the snowy alleyway behind the brothel. Dirth took several seconds to catch up to them as his dog had been asleep and almost missed their departure. Jylan closed the door, and looked at his sister directly. If there was an appropriate time for his unnerving nature as a Tranquil to reveal a benefit, it would be now.

“Where did you get poison from?” Certainly not from Jylan, as he had not made anything stronger than embrium cream and a mild reduction of rashvine since his employment at the Twisted Tail.

“A friend of yours,” Saya said with an excessive display of innocence, twirling her fingers and swinging her hips side to side like a small child, eyelashes batting. “And a friend of mine.” Zevran.

“Did you poison him?”

“No, I poisoned a bottle of wine.” Eli had died from drinking. Jylan had not seen the body and had not considered an examination prudent or necessary. He knew how to make the syrup, not its technical application or symptoms. “ _And_ then maybe I threw it at some drunk sailors, and cussed at them, and maybe they picked up that wine and carried it off because it just landed in some soft snow.” She gave an elaborate shrug. “All out of my hands at that point. They knew who I was, so he was happy to take the bottle with him.”

“Anyone who drank from that bottle could have died, Saya.” Eli had been found dead in the snow the next morning, but he had also been surrounded by several of his shipmates who had been very unwell after their night out. His sister gave a much smaller shrug, and then stepped up close to him with a serious drop in her voice and one sharp fingernail wagging up under his chin.

“My sister could’ve died any time he put his hands on her,” she hissed. “You’ve been here a winter, brother, but I’ve watched him hurt her for _years_. When you see Arainai next, tell him his wine and card table will be waiting for him here at the Tail, hmm?”

“How did you convince him to give you the poison?”

Saya scoffed, hands on her hips now and rolling her shoulders in a way he had observed the house Madame do before.

“He _offered_ it, brother,” she answered with an offended trill in her voice. “ _I_ was going to get the girls to flash their bits and get the drunks inside. Give him that last few seconds of _thrill_ thinking he’d get his wife’s little whore sister after having her odd brother thrown in jail for what could have been forever. I had the knife ready for his sack when your cloak put his hand on my shoulder and said he had orders to pull the shitbug’s heart out through his ribs if he came within ten feet of me.”

“I made no such request of him,” Jylan stated, although with the provision of hindsight it did not seem a bad idea. Jylan was not opposed to his sister’s profession, but he was opposed to her practicing it on their abusive but now dead brother-in-law.

“Funniest thing, really,” Saya commented, a finger tapping on her full lips. “Said they were his mamae’s orders, _scary woman_ , whoever she is.” He knew absolutely nothing about Zevran Arainai’s family structure beyond his claim of honorary kinship to Archmage Surana. “So I stood eleven feet away from him and threw a bottle of wine at his head. When’s the funeral? I want to do something _shameless_ in the middle of it.” That did not seem wise, but at the same time Jylan felt no compulsion to warn her away from such behaviour.

He did not inform his younger sister of the funeral cost being ransomed of their family. He had said he would handle it, and he would handle it.

He completed his requisitions for the day and returned home. Ariyah was beating an unfamiliar wool rug outside their door when he arrived, and she informed him that Samar had purchased it for Dirth.

“He’s always laying on the hard floor, the poor thing. We’ll leave it at his spot by the fire and he’ll finally get to have a warm belly in the evening.” The rug was of undyed wool, but numerous shades and colours of natural fiber: a scratch product made of the loose ends of many carded bundles. Dirth did not understand the conversation, but when Ariyah finished beating the rug and lowered it in front of his dog’s face, Dirth understood the adoring “It’s yours! It’s for _you!_ This is _your bed now!_ ” Ariyah cooed and clucked to him, and he grew very excited.

The rug went in front of the crackling fire, the mabari flopped onto the rug, and when there was a loud bang on their front door Jylan noted that Ariyah’s whicker beater had been left by the threshold.

It was, unsurprisingly, the bitter and unwanted presence of Hahren Masao. The old man made an uncomfortable start at Jylan’s presence in the doorway, and then stepped over the threshold.

Jylan did not move, save to settle his weight to ensure he did not move. The Hahren stopped and gaped at him in offense.

“State your business,” Jylan said.

“Of all the _impunity_ -” the old elf blustered. “You- _you_ were meant to _heal_ this ruinous gap!”

“It is not a gap, it is a wound.” Jylan did not have the capacity to care that his statement was inflammatory to the Hahren. “One you have torn open in your own community. I distinctly remember issuing a warning to you regarding your presence in my family’s home. You will remain outside if you are to conduct business, or I will remove you as I did once before.”

“The _Master_ of this house is _dead_ ,” Masao shook with anger and hurt and Jylan was incapable of drumming up any notion of sympathy. He lifted the whicker beater from its resting place at the door. It was light and nowhere near as sturdy as a broomstick or shovel might have been. However, it would suffice if required. “And your shameful, _disloyal_ brothers _will_ see him given his rites and burned as is only proper by the grace of-”

He hit the Hahren with the stick. It did not have a satisfying crack, but it still struck him over one ear and that would smart enough to make his point. The old man howled and stumbled back, a hand to his offended face.

“The Master of our family died shortly before the conclusion of the Fifth Blight,” Jylan stated, and he spoke over the Hahren when the old man tried to yell at him: “And he was succeeded in authority by his wife. Our mother was taken to the Maker’s side, and the authority passed honourably to her eldest daughter. You will not disrespect my sister again.”

“That _harlot_ -”

Jylan hit him again, bouncing the narrow edge of the beater off the crown of his head. When the Hahren stumbled away, he crossed the threshold into the packed snow and ice of the alley.

This time, for the first time, there were noses and eyes poking out from behind shuttered windows, there was a door further down the lane cracked open to observe this latest incident. Let them watch, Jylan was impervious to shame.

“You will not disrespect my sister again,” Jylan repeated himself. He heard Dirth growling behind him but his dog remained in the house with Ariyah. “You have stolen too much from our family to demand more. You stole our sister’s dowry: if the dead man drank forty silver before he died then a simple match will prove sufficient to ignite his remains.” The Hahren’s ugly pallor flushed violently.

“You _disgraceful-_ ” Jylan thrust the beater’s woven head at his mouth but it was knocked aside by Masao’s arm. This was fine, as it was a wicker wand and there was a very far away, muted memory somewhere in his wrist. The head dropped, his grip opened to permit the rod to follow-through and flip. He grasped it again and pulled up with his elbow, then slapped the makeshift weapon soundly to the back of the Hahren’s head.

The old man stumbled, slipped again on the ice, and collapsed over his poorly bent leg. He cried out in pain and Jylan did not hit him again. He had not been struck hard enough to cause welts, bruises, or blood to appear, but he had been shamed and was now sitting in humiliation on the cold ground. No, correction: he was now struggling and slipping trying in vain to reclaim his feet.

Jylan stepped back into the house and set the beater aside. It was good that he had not damaged it.

“ _The Revered Mother will hear of this!”_ The Hahren screamed at him from the icy lane, and Jylan placed one foot back outside again. The neighbours were still watching.

He imitated what he had seen Warden Carver Hawke do at Vigil’s Keep when he sought to frustrate or embarrass another person. Jylan held up both hands and wiggled them. That he did not perform the gesture properly, to him, seemed fitting.

“Coming from an elf who cannot quote the Transfiguration from the Threnodies, I am very afraid.” His flat, toneless voice also seemed highly appropriate at this point. “Oh, wait.” And then he closed the door between them.

Jylan was immediately hugged and held by his sister. About ten minutes later, when he was sitting down to his hot lunch, there came a more appropriate knock at the door. Again, Jylan answered it. Again, the wicker beater was within reach, though he did not grasp it.

It was a much older man with a Rivaini complexion darker even than Ariyah and Sanjay. His ears had drooped back from age, and his thick and knotted hair was twisted into locks that were more grey than black. His cloak was threadbare over a dark green coat with a ratty hem, but there were more layers underneath and he was warm enough for a short walk, a twisted oak cane in his gloved hand. Despite the cane he did not seem old or bent, perhaps no longer strong in his advanced age, but not crippled by it yet.

“Peace upon this house, _Palahnelan,”_ Jylan did not know the word he used, though it sounded more El’vhen than Rivaini. “I would speak with you, if you have the time before seeing to the midwife.”

Jylan stepped aside and permitted the old man to enter their home. Ariyah froze at the sight of him, then put her sewing down and went to begin fetching the things for tea. She had dawned a black shawl and worn it around her shoulders since Jylan’s return home, and she pulled it up over her braided hair now that the stranger was in their house.

The stranger had given a blessing and asked permission before coming inside. He also stood and waited for Jylan to indicate the chairs around the table. All in all, he was far more polite than the Hahren and there was no reason to turn him out. He sat and held his cane between his legs, pulling his gloves off and folding them over his thigh.

Dirth stood and advanced on the old elf, but didn’t growl or show aggression, merely curious as he sniffed at the man’s old boots and then the palm that was offered. Dirth consented to a chin scratch and then a hand rubbed over his head. Jylan trusted his dog’s judgement.

“A fine hound,” the old man pronounced, his words thick with the same deep, heavy Rivaini accent. “The subject of much talk in the quarter, though not as much as his master, hm?” Jylan obeyed Ariyah’s gesture for him to sit adjacent to the old man at the table. Dirth made his preference clear by ducking under the table and settled on the floor at Jylan’s feet rather than consent to more petting from the stranger. The old man regarded him with a sigh.

“You do not remember me, do you?”

“If you are referring to a childhood memory, then no, ser. You have not introduced yourself to me before now either, so I do not know you.” The elder closed his grey eyes with a solemn nod, his blunt nose showing the regretful nod he made.

“Curtesy is lacking in the neighbourhood, and what good are our elders if we do not set a standard? I apologize for my rudeness.” And then finally, he gave his name. “I am Omanan, and I was Keffra’s shipmate before we settled with our wives in Gwaren. Your father was my friend, and he bested me soundly when we competed for your mother. I think he’d best me again after what’s been going on since you came home. Which of his sons am I speaking to, _Palahnelan_?” Jylan did not know that El’vhen word.

“I am Keffra and Simran’s fourth-born; their third son, Jeevan.”

“The mage.”

“The Tranquil,” Jylan corrected. “I was stripped of my magical abilities nine years ago, and have been as you see me ever since.”

“The Templars took you and put you in the Chantry,” Omanan said, leaning his weight on the table with one arm and gesturing with it as he spoke. “They filled your head up with letters and numbers? Stories, and histories, and philosophies?

“Amongst other things, yes.” He had also learned languages, mathematics, rhetoric, law, and so forth.

“You have _read_ the Chant of Light?”

“All parts which were permissible for a mage to read, yes. Our theological and religious instruction was of great value to the Chantry.”

“The actual Chant of Light?” The old elf repeated. This point seemed of fundamental interest to him “You have _read it?_ Held the actual words of Andraste in your hands and repeated them aloud?”

“With oversight and instruction from the attending priests within the Circle, yes.”

His father’s friend did not know how to react to this information, because he sat back in his chair and completely ignored when Ariyah placed a steaming cup of tea on the table beside him, handing another one to Jylan which he acknowledged. She also moved his bowl of lentils and spices from where he had been seated before to his new place now. He had only sipped the tea when the older elf came out of his quiet.

“I am not, as they say, much of an Andrastian.” Very well, Jylan had not asked. “But can you answer me a question? Does the Chant of Light truly say that Andraste, from her girlhood, forswore any man but the Maker, and forbade Maferath from ever entering her bed? She bore him no children, and never accepted his insistence of their marriage?”

“No, not at all.” This question was odd, but was accompanied by other odd attributions which any basic reading of the Chant of Light would have dismissed. “Andraste from her girlhood was possessed of wisdom and the beauty of her voice, but she married in the tradition of her people, the Alamarri, and was the strong and capable wife of Maferath, from whom she bore three daughters.”

“ _Daughters!_ ” Omanan cried out, but his face broke into a smile. “Her three daughters, who only bore daughters- the _Chant of Light_ says this?”

“The progeny of Andraste’s daughters is not discussed in the Chant itself, but is widely acknowledged and accepted as doctrinal and of historical value by the Chantry.” Apocryphal texts dictated that Maferath’s three sons had come from his mistress or his second wife, depending on the translation at play, and Andraste’s daughters by him had mothered only daughters from that historical point onward. It was as good as canon.

“So the Divine herself would accept this?” Omanan asked him one more time, and when Jylan said yes the old elf thumped the end of his cane on the floor, a grinning smile and a few traces of tears wetting his eyes. He tapped the cane again and again, wrestling with many emotions, and then shook the carved head of the rod at Jylan. “I am never trusting another _dog shit word_ Jerrin Masao tries to tell me. Keffra and I grew up with the seers, Roshan across the _Vhenadahl_ was from our same village, and yet we _all knew the tale_ of Andraste’s daughters. If the Divine says Andraste had three girls, then by the Maker’s own guiding hand, she had _three girls_.”

“Is that all you came here to say?” Ariyah finally spoke up, but her words were trembling from distress. “That’s _it?_ ”

“Ari…” If this man had been as close with their father as he claimed, and still lived so close to their family’s home, then he must have known the rest of Jylan’s siblings very well. “I was angry, girl. I am a stupid old man, too daft to know starboard from a star-fish anymore. I wronged you, and I let Masao lead me along, and if your mother was still alive, Maker Take Her to His Side, she would have caned me with my own stick. My girl, I am _sorry_.”

“You _ruined us_ ,” Ariyah was close to tears and Jylan was missing a significant chunk of what was passing between them. “You turned the whole _street_ against us, all because-”

“All because Masao lied to me.” Omanan said, rising to his feet and trying to calm her from his place at the table. “I trusted my Hahren over my family. Was I wrong? _Maker yes,_ Ari, I was wrong. I was angry, and I was _wrong_. Do I even think Hassan wanted her as his wife? No, I don’t. I don’t think I like what Saya’s made of herself since all of that, and I know I don’t like what happened to her child, but those were not the things which made me angry.” It clicked.

This man represented the family Saya had nearly married into, before her pregnancy.

“How much did Masao take from you?” Omanan asked.

“Too much,” Ariyah choked. “Especially after how _you_ treated us. Going- up and down the lane saying how- she was a _whore_. Dragging her name through the mud- it was never any wonder she didn’t want to stay after what _you did_.”

“This stupid old man did a hurtful and awful thing, Ariyah. I hurt my best friend’s _three daughters._ ”

“On _purpose-_ ” Ariyah was now crying, and Jylan stood up.

“I will now request that you leave our home.” His words shocked the old man.

“But I came here to-?”

“Your intentions are irrelevant to me,” he interrupted. “I do not know you, and your presence here has upset my sister. I understand that you have made no directly offensive comments and are currently engaged in acknowledging and apologizing for past offenses, but you have upset my sister. I request that you leave our home.”

“Jeevan wait,” the old man said nothing, but Ariyah approached and touched his arm, seeking his attention which he granted her despite not shifting his gaze away from their neighbour. “Don’t throw him out.” She wrapped her hand around his wrist and another at his elbow, not enough to restrain him, but still a warm and compelling hold when coupled with her forehead pressing to his shoulder. She turned her face to the old man and when she spoke her voice had regained its sharpness. “And he _will_ throw you out if I let him, uncle.”

“I just watched him beat Masao like a carpet,” Omanan uttered back, still taken aback but not in the angry and offended way the Hahren had been. “I’m not going to tempt either of you.”

“Sit down, uncle.” Ariyah gave the command and Omanan sat down. Jylan did not reclaim his seat because Ariyah rubbed his arm and tugged on it until he looked at her. “Go see if Neria has work for you today, thank you.”

“Dirth will remain here,” he told her, but ultimately yes, he consented to leave for Neria’s.

“Are you…?” He was there and at work for approximately twenty minutes before Neria made an odd comment to him. “You’re in a bad mood? I didn’t know Tranquil _could-_ ”

“No, I am not capable of having moods.” She folded her arms and her brows rose as they often did when she did not believe him. Neria was standing next to him and reached to the cutting board he was working on, lifting the dried elfroot that had been more crushed than cut by the large knife in his hands.

“You didn’t sharpen the knife,” she pointed out, “and I’ve never seen you cut crooked before.”

“The direction of the cuts does not have an impact on the effectiveness of the poultice.” Neria pulled a face at him and dropped the leaf, curling her fingers away and stepping back.

“Oh _no_ , you _definitely_ don’t have _moods_ , serrah.” Her sarcasm was not necessary, but she retreated from him and left him to work on the required potions, salves, and other raw materials. He agreed to dine with her and Jeevan in order to remind her again about the silver he had left on her table the night before.

“No! Let them cut him up and leave him out for the carrion birds.” She did not take to the suggestion, but the silver remained on the table between them and this time she did not attempt to throw the bag back at him. The soup was tasteless, which was odd given the quantity of cut meat and boiled beans combined in it, but at least it satisfied hunger and he could eat a full portion.

In the last hour before Jylan left, he examined the hazel wood hoop where it was drying and took up some of the tools from his enchantment kit. A metal plate to work atop, his work gloves, pliers, and cutters with the spool of copper wire. A small hammer was required to tap the wire out thin and even, and both Neria and Jeevan sat on either side of him to watch as he bent, folded, shaped, and twisted to form the many narrow petals of a marigold. He cut when he was required to do so, but realized too late in the process that the flower would be too large.

It was too large by at least a quarter inch. Neria stopped him with a sudden cry when he made to pull it apart.

“It will not fit the ward once the wood is sanded and shaped for the inlay,” he explained, and Neria’s face was washed with true disappointment. “The petals may be unwound and used to form a smaller version of the same pattern.”

“But it’s _lovely_ ,” she complained.

“It is only copper wire.” And as he possessed only a limited quantity of wire, to waste it would be unwise. “You cannot compel me by pouting.”

“I am not pouting.” She was indeed pouting. She was not legitimately distressed by the topic however and therefore he had no reason to give into her demands. He cut the stem of the improperly fashioned flower and began hammering out and cutting the pieces for a smaller, more appropriately sized copy. He completed three such smaller flowers before it was time for him to leave.

Jylan took the large one and the heartwood knot from the ledge where it had been left to dry next to the hoop. The smaller flowers were left with the hoop to prevent damage in his satchel.

When he returned home, his siblings were seated around the table with Omanan and smiling with each other. Saya and Jenna were absent of course as they no longer lived at home, but Rian had the look of someone who had been crying gently and was now very relieved and happy with the arrangement.

“You are reconciled with him?” Jylan put the question to his sister before declining to sit at the table. Ariyah had her hands clasped with the old man’s and Samar was rubbing his eyes with considerable relief. They had reconciled, therefore there was no reason to remove Omanan from the house.  
  
Dirth was pleased to see him and barked eagerly for attention, which he was given in the way of Jylan’s hands scratching his dog’s muzzle. Tahir demanded a hug from him and Raveena and Anu were sitting by the fire chatting eagerly with another young girl close to both of them in age. Sanjay, in a rare and inexplicable act of tolerance, came up to him with his writing board and presented a page of cleanly written trade runes. Jylan had no corrections to offer and stated that in the morning he would write out a poem of his nephew’s choice for him to copy out. When Jylan told him that Jeevan would be pleased with his accomplishments, Sanjay pretended that this did not please him as much as it did.

“ _Palahnelan? Really?”_ He heard Samar ask, and the unfamiliar word required his attention again. “I mean, he’s a little…”

“Well who else?” Omanan answered over a hot bowl of fish and rice in a red curry sauce their family was fond of. “I’ve no doubt the midwife will approve, and that’s usually half the battle right there.”

“He won’t have the support from the community,” Ariyah cautioned, but she and his brothers were each taking turns casting quick looks at Jylan. “Not unless…”

“You have the Bashars and the Serras families,” Omanan said, “My family now, and when I tell the Velfenas that yes, they’ve been telling the truth from the start and their Amine’s dowery was missing ten silver, they’ll fall in line as well. Even if they don’t accept Jeevan as _Palahnelan_ , they will _all_ agree that Masao needs to be replaced as Hahren.”

“What does _Palahnelan_ mean?” He had heard his name spoken in the context of their conversation and this warranted clarification. Omanan turned in his chair and looked at him, then indicated a chair that was reserved for either Ariyah or Samar: at the head of the table.

“ _Challenger,_ ” Rian translated. “You- you beat Masao with a _stick_ today, Jeevan. If that’s not challenging his authority then I don’t know what counts.”

“Old Oma has it in his head that _you_ should be the next Hahren.” Samar offered an explanation which was unreasonable.

“I said it was a _thought_ ,” Omanan defended himself.

“I have lived in the Alienage for less than a season,” he stated. “There will be many others better equipped to take the position.”

“Maybe,” Rian shrugged.

“Probably not,” Ariyah hushed.

“But none of them will be better educated in general or capable of handling the city authorities.” Omanan was not looking at him, sitting properly in his chair facing across the table to the empty seat, and he sipped his tea and smacked his lips. “A mabari to make them listen if not _respect_ you, and bite them if they won’t do either. You, our _Palahnelan_ , had an audience with _the Her Majesty the Queen_ , and she found matters in your favour.”

“I am tranquil, to place me in a position of authority would stand contrary to centuries of tradition.”

“If it’s not you,” Omanan said, twisting in his chair again and looking at Jylan with a frankness which was appreciated. “Then will you at least support whoever is chosen to replace Masao?”

“So long as whoever is chosen does not intend harm or injustice against my family, then I will not oppose them.”

He retired upstairs without permitting his family to wrangle him down to the table to continue discussing such fanciful and incomprehensible solutions to the alienage’s leadership qualms.

He was tired, but there was unease across his shoulders and deep in his gut- perhaps the signs of indigestion from his substandard dinner in Neria and Jeevan’s company. He removed his boots and tunic, and did not have enough hair left to justify brushing it for any reason. He washed his hands and arms and face with cold water, but did not feel the fatigue to necessitate sleep.

Dirth was happily laying on his bed after having recognized his nightly routine, but Jylan’s attention fell to his satchel instead. Several of his tools were inside of it, along with the heartwood knot and the copper marigold he had stated he would pull apart so as to salvage the materials.

He noted that the heartwood and the marigold were of complimentary sizes.

He intended to only work on it for an hour, as he only had candlelight by which to work. The block of clay which had been used to hold the amber talisman was softened with a bit of water and then used to hold the wood, and despite not being entirely dry after its boiling the day before, he was able to chisel several coiled lines around the outer edge, shaving down the top and bottom to make it a more appealing size and shape.

Many more than one hour later, his back was sore and his head beginning to ache from trying to focus in the poor light. He recognized his lapse in judgement when it became easier to see, which required better light, which was provided by the rising sun. Oh.

Dirth had slept well, Jylan had not slept at all. He looked at the amulet in his hand. It had already been sanded, and carved, and sanded again, and then detailed. His desk and hands were quite dirty from the work, as were his shirt and trousers as he had not put on his apron before commencing so much more than the rough work he had intended.

Although the original wood had been nearly two inches deep, he had easily halved the depth to make it more comfortable when worn. Amara’s amulet was large and often obstructive, this was considerably slimmer. Myrtle leaves were not easily distinguished from other tear-drop shaped plants and were carved along the smooth back, their stems joined to form the hoop which would hold a cord at some point.

The rope-cut edge where the copper wire would rest had been fitted but not inlaid, as the amulet still required the aforementioned stain. If not stain, then paint, of which he also had none. There was a notch made in the front of the round face to host the copper marigold, but he was not yet ready to fix it. Again: the stain. Once the flower was fixed in place he would tap the petals down into the wood to keep them from moving, sand down any splinters which rose from this abuse, and it would be ready for a final stain and presentation.

Simply, it would not have done to burn the wood like any other piece of scrap lumber, and the copper had been too thoroughly twisted and beaten to make pulling it apart worthwhile. It was preferable to make a second, mundane piece than to simply dispose of the materials. He accepted the possibility that he was lying to himself and chose to live with it. The amulet was made. The flower would please her. She deserved something nice.

It did not look nice, it needed a stain.

He was too tired to make one now and could not remember if this house or Neria’s even had the materials necessary to complete such a basic recipe. He had completed a significant list of requisitions yesterday for the Twisted Tail and tomorrow was the day of rest. He had not slept all night, he chose to sleep now.

He washed his hands and face again. He changed his clothes properly. Dirth was confused by the fact that he was going to bed instead of getting out of it, and he opened the door to let the dog out to relieve himself outside.

He had just achieved a heavy-limbed state of comfort when Rian knocked hard on his door and asked if he was alright. Jylan got up, answered the door, and-

“What in the world happened to your desk?”

“I lost track of time last night.”

“Did you… did you not sleep? _All night?_ ”

“I did not, no.”

“Hurry up then, muscle through it, because you’ll be late for work.” He did not intend to go to the Twisted Tail in his current state.

Rian seemed shocked and reached out to touch his face and forehead, mindful not to touch the brand with his hands.

“You’ve got no fever, but you’re also babbling nonsense. _You_ , not go to work?” Rian’s point… was valid.

Jylan redressed himself in clean clothes and ate a sparse breakfast of bread and jam. He went to the brothel- and was turned back because there was no work for him.

He returned home, but on the way he bought a bottle of wood stain from an apothecary shop. That he could have made the same ointment himself for a significantly reduced fee was very obvious to him, but so too was the fact that he possessed a small fortune of gold coins and this method was more convenient for him. He returned home, rubbed the amulet with stain, hammered the flower into the wood while it was still wet, and went to bed.

His nap was interrupted by Sanjay hitting him awake with his writing board and complaining belligerently that Jylan had not written the promised poem for him to copy. Jylan sat up in bed, bleary-eyed from sleep, and took the charcoal nib from the boy. He wrote a line from _‘The Brave Mabari and the Foolish Fox’_ in Dwarven runes, then halfway down the page he wrote a flowing line of Justinian script. He handed the board back to his nephew, who left the room in a huff, and then he went back to bed.

He roused and dressed himself an hour or two later, near enough to the time when he was required to leave for Neria’s. He checked the amulet and the stain was still clearly damp, so he left it to continue drying.

Downstairs he met with Rian, who was home early, and Sanjay’s writing board. His brother had too much humour in his voice to make his scolding voice convincing.

“What in Andraste’s Name does this say?” He asked, indicating the Justinian script Sanjay had fumbled to copy out. The boy had done an admirable job of mimicking the loops and twists of the writing.

“It is good that your grasp of Justinian has improved,” Jylan complimented his brother. The final threads of Rian’s composure snapped and he burst into ridiculous giggles.

The Justinian, muddled in Sanjay’s crooked hand but clear in Jylan’s practiced script, was written: _‘I am Sanjay, a pest to my elders.’_

“I think I’m taking this to work with me, put it in a little frame on the wall.” Rian snickered.

Jylan went to work for Neria and was greeted by her exclamation that he looked very tired. She was correct, as he also felt very tired. He declined her offer of a drink because it was likely the alcohol would put him to sleep. He accepted her offer of food because it was likely the unpleasant taste would wake him up.

“Old Oma’s been causing a stir in the neighbourhood this morning,” she reported to him, as if the dealings of the old elf had anything to do with Jylan. “He’s calling your Masao’s _Palahnelan._ ”

“I am willing to challenge the Hahren, but I do not see how that should indicate myself as his successor.”

“I think it’s just the fact that you’re willing to stand up to him at all,” she answered him as he prepared dried aromatics with a resin gum to form incense sticks and cakes. “Did you really smack him with Ariyah’s carpet beater yesterday?”

“Several times, yes.”

“The alienage is buzzing about how he’s been skimming silver off dowries.” She continued to gossip to him as he worked, combining the aromatics with precise measurements to ensure both the correct scent and consistency of the forming paste. “Ten silver from the Bashars, _fifteen_ from the Lindenda household, it’s incredible. Families don’t talk about dowries _together_ , they talk to the _Hahren_ and the Hahren mediates between the two parties. Nobody _knew_ until you accused him outright of taking Saya’s.”

“It is good that these conversations are happening. By addressing the issues, they can be resolved.”

“Thank you,” she said, and he looked at her. Neria was leaning her back on the counter next to him, her ankles crossed and hands behind her to cushion against the counter.

“I did nothing which requires thanks.” Her response was to grin broadly at him, shaking her head quickly to flick a lock of her thin, pale blonde hair out of her eyes.

“You whacked the Hahren with a stick,” she purred, and he went back to mixing the thick, tacky contents of the bowl. “If you weren’t tranquil then that’d be worth at least a kiss on the cheek.”

“If I were not tranquil, then I would accept.” No-

“What?” _No._

“I apologize, Midwife Surana as that was inappropriate of me.”

Neria took a breath but then did not speak. His hands had frozen in their task and he restarted, mixing thrice more before using his hands to take up portions of the incense to form and mold between his palms. He completed four small rods of incense before she spoke again, her arms now folded over her chest, her pale fingers drumming on the pleated leather arms of her Dalish tunic and shirt.

“I do not understand the given offense, Master Ashera.” She had taken her time in order to formulate a tactful and direct response to him. “An explanation of your transgression would be appreciated, and would help mediate further conflicts before they can occur.” Her request was perfectly reasonable and he was not susceptible to embarrassment.

“We are friends, and your comment was meant in a friendly manner,” he explained. “My response could be very easily taken as a flirtation, and as it was intended to amuse you it is possible that that assumption would not be wholly unfounded. Such behaviours are strictly forbidden as they contribute to environments laden with abuse and emotional trial. Amusement is not justification for ambiguity when engaging in active conversation.”

She was surprised by the stream of words but he could not put together a more concise answer to her request.

“You’re Tranquil, so you’re not allowed to flirt?” She asked.

“That is correct.”

“You- thought I was flirting with you?”

“Ultimately it does not matter how your comment was meant, the possible interpretations of my response to it are what is at issue.” It did not matter if she had been, because she had not been, and now that this topic was open between them then she would not do so again. This was good. It was unfortunate, but more so it had to be good.

“What did you mean by an environment _‘laden with abuse and emotional trial’?_ ” Neria asked him, straightening up and reaching to touch his arm with her hand, but then she stopped. No contact was made.

“We may speak of easy things, Midwife Surana, or of hard ones. I will leave the decision to your judgement as I am incapable of an emotional response to either course.”

“…This is about An’eth, isn’t it?” She asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“Is it easier for you to speak of such things when sitting at the table with me, or standing here with your work?”

“I am capable of either course.”

“And that’s good,” her voice did not rise over a soft murmur. She did not touch him, but she remained close at hand. “But which one is preferable? To sit, or to work?”

“To work.”

“Is it easier if I simply ask you to begin and you tell me what you think needs to be said, or if I ask questions one at a time? You said it was a complicated series of events.”

“It was indeed complicated, with many factors in conflicting play,” Jylan answered. “I believe it would be a simpler matter for you to supply questions for me to answer.”

“Where should I stand while we talk about it?” He did not expect or understand the immediate relevance of this question, but she elaborated with a gesture across the room. “When the Keepers have something important and private to say, they bring whoever it is into their aravel where it’s close and warm and quiet. It’s supposed to help, but sometimes it just feels smothering, like you’re being trapped and forced to talk. I can stand close to you, or I can move away.” She was already standing close to him, very close, and it was no longer as pleasing as it had been a few minutes ago.

“I believe… that a few steps of space would be appropriate.” Without another word, Neria picked up her feet and moved away from him. She was not across the room, but she was not blocking any path out of the house or from the room. She kept her arms folded, but her face was calm and smooth. When she looked at him, it was with her full attention. “Thank you.”

“If I ask a question that you consider inappropriate, I don’t want you to answer it,” she said. “I would feel hurt and upset if you thought yourself obligated to over-share. This is a private matter, Jeevan, and as your friend I understand that private matters should remain so if you prefer it that way.” This verbal confirmation of trust was appreciated.

“Thank you.”

“Then I…” she rolled her shoulders a little, displaying some unease before licking her lips and continuing. “I’ll start. An’eth- she was a Grey Warden, right? Is she still one of them?”

“Yes.” He answered. “At the time of my dismissal from Vigil’s Keep, Warden Athras was a Corporal of the Grey in Amaranthine. She was sent to Vigil’s Keep by her clan as an envoy of good faith and recognition of the friendship between Keeper Lanaya of Clan Zathrian and Warden Commander Surana.”

“Did she hurt you?”

“Yes.”

“By-? How? Did she attack you?”

“No. It was an involuntary action which caused her immediate regret, but presented itself as a breaking point in my self-conduct. I required physical space from her in the aftermath of the event.” A frightened light took to her eyes and Neria folded her arms tighter over her chest.

“Did you find that space?”

“Yes.”

“What do you believe would have happened had you not been able to get away?”

“I would doubtless have entered a state known as _struggle_ , where what a Tranquil understands and what we are incapable of changing about our situation becomes overwhelming and physically painful. It is very stressful and does not permit us to carry out our tasks and obligations.” Her horror grew, and her voice dropped.

“Have you ever felt that way around _me?_ ”

“Never to the same extreme as what I experienced with An’eth.”

“But that’s still a yes-?” She became frozen. “How do I stop it from happening?”

“You cannot. I am Tranquil, and it is simply a matter of my existence. I am aware of what I do not feel, of what compulsions are absent from me, and at times this information is uncomfortable to bear. For both positive and negative reasons, the state is one I can only mediate, never control. Remaining solely in the company of other Tranquil is one coping method exercised extensively by the Formari Guildsmen. It is easier to ignore the absence if you are never in contact with anyone else who may place expectations of emotional response or competency upon you.”

Silence formed between them, but it did not have much time to settle before Neria made her frozen lips speak again.

“Is… is it _better_ for you to be with the Guildsmen then?”

“No, not since I was betrayed by them.”

“They betrayed you…” She murmured, but it was not a question. What followed was the question: “Did _they_ hurt you?”

“No, but they enabled the harm which did occur, as did the Office of the Arl of Amaranthine.”

“His Office, or the Arl _himself?_ ”

“The Arl himself,” Jylan amended. “It was not my intention to obscure my meaning, but to avoid the suggestion that I am targeting him as there still exists the unverified possibility that he is your sibling or cousin. If I were to speak more directly, then the enabling behaviour was performed by the Arl of Amaranthine in tandem with the Formari Guildmaster.”

“The man who sent Formari Cyril to Gwaren to take you back to Amaranthine…” Neria phrased a question but did not intone one, so therefore Jylan only nodded to her. He did not speak. “What did the Arl and the Guildmaster do, exactly?”

“They made amendments to the Charter of the Formari Guildsmen of Amaranthine, a charter which I was bound by, but did not communicate the changes to me despite my communicative channels with both of them. I was remiss in my written correspondence to Amaranthine during the final weeks of my employment at Vigil’s Keep, but spoke with the Arl on multiple occasions during the same period.”

“What was the amendment?”

“It was a provision of rights and protections meant to guard the Guildsmen from unnecessary social entanglements. Specifically, it was the written and legal establishment of sexual consent and the right to refuse that consent in situations of sexual expectation or exploitation.”

“Rape-” Neria gasped, and then her eyes widened at the shock of her own admission. “Jeevan, are you talking about rape?”

“As it is widely understood, yes.”

“They established it,” she whispered, more so to herself than to him, “Does that mean it didn’t exist before that? Consent? You didn’t- Tranquil didn’t have the right to refuse…?” She fell quiet and he was not certain which part of her shocked statements he was meant to respond to. He waited for her to look at him again, which she did, and for a clearer question to take root, which it did: “Were you raped by that Warden?”

Jylan took a breath, as it was more complicated than that:

“I was not informed of the changes to the Charter,” he began with the crux of the issue, the point from which all that followed had originated with. “I did not know that there existed legal provisions which I could have called upon for my own protection. I understood that I was under contract to the Grey Wardens of Ferelden and that my wages, the first I had earned in my working life as Tranquil were never compensated for their work within either the Circles of Magi or the Formari Guildsmen, were sent here to support my family.

“I understood with Warden Guerrin’s dispatch to the Anderfels that I did not have an immediate superior within the Grey Wardens to turn to. Warden Sephri, a mage with credible background working with the Tranquil, had already been dispatched to Antiva City, and when she returned it was several weeks too late for me to approach her as a mediating force.” Velanna had not known enough of the Tranquil. Valora was not a Warden. Garavel was not a Warden.

“I am Tranquil,” he continued. “I was the representative of the Guildsmen in Vigil’s Keep, to find myself in conflict with a Grey Warden, especially one who had received personal accolades from the Warden Commander for her services during the war with Redcliffe, would have instantly terminated my contract with the Keep. I understand that I would have been removed from the situation had I returned to the Guildsmen, but I would have lost my wages for my family here in Gwaren. My hesitation over the matter permitted An’eth to bind me with a promise not to permit my return to the guild at all, and I did not know that I had the right to refuse her.” He had said many things but had not answered her question. He knew this, but when he opened his mouth to say that no, he had not been raped by An’eth, more words that were not his answer poured out.

“Tranquil were not permitted to resist any order under any circumstances.” He had suggested that he would find this conversation easier if he was working, but his hands were woven together in front of him, elbows tucked, and he had not returned to the incense. “My behaviour in Gwaren is not as it has been at any other point since the Rite. I am not punished for interrupting others. I am not punished for leaving the presence of others without permission. I am not punished for physical resistance against the Hahren. I am not punished for removing the children from my room or restraining them when they exhibit negative or harmful behaviour. I am not punished for arguing with my siblings. I am not punished for holding opinions or for voicing them. I am not punished for calling into question the abilities of others. I am not punished for acquiring, withholding, and spending my own coin. I am not punished for demanding strangers or unwanted neighbours leave my family’s home. I am not punished for rudeness.”

It was an extensive list of freedoms he had never been permitted to exercise. It had not felt so constricting until he spoke them out loud like this. He had made one stumble in his explanation and corrected for it now:

“It is true that I have incurred the negative actions of the Hahren against myself,” he explained, “but I do not consider these punishments as his own behaviour has been intolerable and required my intervention to protect Ariyah and her children. I have engaged in open conflict with Hahren Masao and received support for behaviour which would have incurred excessive and violent punishment, likely even execution, within the Circles of Magi. I know, now, that in the context of Gwaren and the alienage’s social structure, I am permitted to resist and to alter my behaviour depending on the immediate context and company I keep. I did not have this freedom among the Guildsmen, and I was not informed when such powers were newly provided until it was nearly too late to stop the Arl from executing An’eth for the crime of rape against a Formari Guildsman.”

“Did she rape you?” Neria asked him quietly, her voice hovering at a whisper. She was not crying or collapsing on herself, but she was shocked nearly to silence and her gaze would not waver from his.

“I do not know.”

“Did you- I’m- I’m _sorry_ ,” she faltered, closing her eyes briefly before steeling herself and forcing the question through: “Did you have _sex_ with her?”

“Yes.” The horror crept over her face again, but she wrestled it down.

“Do Tranquil feel desire?”

“No.”

“You’re not able to _want_ anything, I know that.” Her eyes lost focus for the first time in this exposition, and as she spoke now her face began to grimace, to grow angry. “You can’t _lust_ , so how did-? What, did she just-? _Climb onto you?_ ” She looked at him. “What did she do to you?”

“She commanded me,” he answered. He knew he did not have to, but he answered. “To kiss and to touch are physical acts. I was taught how to mimic affectionate contact as a Tranquil, and the mimicry combined with her commands was sufficient to meet her needs.”

“ _Why_ would _anyone_ have taught you to do something like that!?” He… no.

“I would prefer not to answer that question.” His refusal caused her to look at him, and then with a shuddering breath her anger came up violently over her face.

She turned away from him, walked a few paces to one side, then the other. Her arms were reaching around her chest and shoulders, holding herself as her emotions rose and twisted inside of her. She was very angry, but not at him.

“Why did she do it?” Neria asked him through clenched teeth. When she looked at him her eyes were growing red and tearful, though she did not cry.

“An’eth believed herself in love with me,” he explained, “I could not dissuade her, and she claimed that my inability to love her back or to support her emotionally was not sufficient. Her insistence was that a romantic relationship would be pleasurable and supportive for both of us. I now believe that she imagined the Rite of Tranquility as an act which disabled the expression and communication of emotion, not the actual experience of it. She insisted that arousal was proof of love, and that my compliance and mimicry were ways I had learned to subvert the Rite’s effects.”

“How-?” She gasped at him, “How, in all of that, do you arrive at _‘I don’t know’_ when I ask if she raped you? How was it anything _else?_ ”

“Because I consented to the relationship.” This answer was important. “She asked me, and she said she would continue our friendship if I refused her. At the time I weighed the possibility of permitting her to stew with her emotions against the likelihood that she would grow frustrated with my shortcomings as a partner, and deemed the latter more appealing. I expected it to sour our friendship, which it did, but that the bitter experience would quash her feelings and ensure she did not subject herself to the same emotional turmoil again. As I had implied at the outset that the most use she would have for me would be sexual in nature, therefore I was unable to raise arguments against her advances when she made them, and I had not known that I could not resist her regardless. However, I believe that had the relationship not been discovered, she was already approaching a state of frustration sufficient to end the agreement.”

“But instead it was discovered…” Neria said, and she did not ask him how it had come to light. “And the Arl tried to execute her for it?”

“Warden Commander Surana had issued an order to An’eth forbidding her from pursuing me, as her interests had been previously noted. I was not informed of this order and therefore, like the charter, I was unable to either invoke it as a reason to stop or consider it when making the initial decision to consent to her demand.”

Neria’s temper unexpectedly flashed.

“ _He told her not to and she did it **anyways!?**_ ” She shouted, and Jylan thought he heard the hiss of magic as she threw her arms down and howled the words at him. “How the hell is _she_ still a Warden and _you_ were put on a ship to Gwaren!?” He was prepared to answer this, but she did not give him the chance to do so. “You said _weeks ago_ that you were fired because you made the Arl mad at you- how the _fuck_ is any of this your fault!?”

He did not answer because he was waiting to see if she would say more. Neria was breathing hard, hands clenched in tight fists, and she was shaking with her anger. When she said nothing, he answered her.

“I understand that An’eth’s behaviour, decisions, and actions are of questionable nature,” he said. “But what ultimately enabled the situation to take root was the lack of communication from the Arl and the Guildmaster to me personally. I only learned of the amendments during the trial An’eth was nearly executed during. That she had acted wrongly is not in question, but that I was purposefully stripped of agency bears considerably more weight.”

“She _raped you_ ,” Neria hissed, “She should have hanged!”

“If I had been properly informed of my rights and her orders, then I could have refused her,” he argued now, something he was permitted to do despite his tranquility. “I could have appealed to a higher power and authority than her own. I could have sought the Archmage’s protection as a Guildsman or simply as a denizen of the Vigil whom he had commanded a wayward Grey Warden to leave alone. If she had disregarded my protests and carried on regardless, then I would not have protested the trial as I did. But we are speaking now of things which could have been, not what was.”

“She should have _fucking hanged,_ Jeevan!”

“Neria, I understand that you are compelled by emotion but I implore you to listen to me,” he said. Her response was to send him a hateful look, but then walk a tight circle around her kitchen and glare at everything around her in the same manner. She was angry, but not at him. When he spoke she gave him her attention once more. “I was bait for a trap set by my Guildmaster and enabled by the Arl of Amaranthine for the sole purpose of setting a precedent in Amaranthine Law and increasing the power and influence of the Formari Guildsmen. My employment with the Vigil was terminated by Guildmaster Owain with the expectation that I would return with him to the Guild Hall. Instead, I quit my guild and severed all legal ties with the Guildsmen in the middle of the trial, invalidating their claims and protection. It is likely that my actions inspired derision from the Arl, as his plan fell apart in the middle of his own court, but what I am undeniably certain caused anger in him is the behaviour I displayed immediately after surrendering my guild membership.”

“What did you do?” She asked.

“I demanded an apology from him.”

“And that made him _angry?_ ” She spat.

“The Arl is a very proud individual. I had upset his court and publicly called out his scheme, and then demanded both acknowledgement and then an expression of regret for that fact. He was very angry.”

“Did you get it?” She demanded. “Your apology?”

“No, I was fired.”

“ _Fuck!_ ” She moved like she would kick something, or throw something, but there was nothing on hand for her to act out on. She stormed about in her circle but cast no magic, an impressive show of self-control. “And I _look like him?_ ”

“You are more expressive and animated in your anger, but yes.”

“He sounds like a _monster!_ ”

“He was trained in manipulation and deceit by former First Enchanter Irving of the Fereldan Circle of Magi,” Jylan informed her, or reminded her, he could not remember if this had been said before. “Such behaviour is expected.”

“He’s supposed to be a _Hero_.”

“Killing an Archdemon does not necessitate being a nice person.”

Neria offered him neither answer nor rebuttal to this statement. She stopped her pacing and her flailing and looked at him, all but glaring until he realized her anger was burning itself out. As he had surmised earlier: she was not angry with him, but at his situation. Her wide eyes began to fill and shine with tears, and her furious growling began to shake and crumble down into tightly constricted huffs for breath. She felt compelled to cry and release her emotions, but resisted it painfully.

“I-” she shuddered through her tension and distress. “I’m _glad_ you told me this, Jeevan.”

“You do not appear to be in any state approaching gladness, Neria.”

“Well I’m _pissed_ and I’m _upset_ ,” she gasped back at him, holding her arms down straight as she could have them, her hands clenched in shaking fists. “And I want to comfort you- or show you comfort, or help you, or- but you don’t _need_ that and after what you’ve told me I don’t even know how it’d make me any different from _her_.” Her breaths caught and shivered hard, her chin trembling as she looked away from him. “…It’s just another reason for Samar to hate me, he was there when this happened.”

“As I stated several days ago, Neria, you are incomparable with An’eth.”

“But it’s still what he’s worried about anyways, isn’t it!?” She raised her voice but then recoiled at the sound of it, though he did not. He recognized that she was upset at other things which were not him, but he doubted that through her turbulent emotions she was as self-aware. She clapped one hand over her mouth for a moment, breathing hard and uneven, and then uttered more words from behind it: “I shouldn’t shout at you, I’m sorry…”

“His worries are unfounded,” Jylan repeated, trying to lower the volume of his voice from standard conversation to something softer. He doubted his effectiveness with voice modulation, but made the attempt regardless. If he approached her physically he was well aware that it would inspire refusal and increase her distress. She was not in any state to listen to him clearly and without emotional intrusions which would misconstrue his meaning. She was beginning to weep. Tears would calm her because they were a form of release, but it was still an outright display of her negative state.

“I do not know how to prove myself to you.” Or to comfort her. Or to help her at all.

“ _Dirthamen-_ ” She was still holding her hand to her mouth, fingers fanned across her pale lips. Jylan looked and saw his dog peering shyly out from around the kitchen counter and he did not know how long Dirth had been standing and watching them go back and forth. His hound was not aggressive, he was watching Jylan with his dark brown eyes and had one ear twisted toward Neria, his only acknowledgement of her saying his name.

“Dirth,” Neria repeated, and this time Dirth looked at her. She beckoned him with her hands and he put his ears up as a sign of alertness and understanding, though he did not move. “Dirth come, _please.”_

Jylan offered no challenge or correction to this summons and Dirth picked up his feet and walked to the crying midwife. There was hesitation and confusion in his mabari’s steps, and it was possible that Dirth’s highly intelligent mind could not unravel enough of the conversation to understand if they had been arguing with each other or not. When he approached Neria, she took a knee and rubbed his jowls, a gesture which often pleased him. He came closer still and she hugged the dog around his thick shoulders, settling her cheek against his broad neck.

Dirth gave a soft whine as he realized the pain but was still left without a comprehendible reason for it. He placed his large head down on her shoulder and Neria continued to hug him close and tight, rubbing her hand over his bristly fur and keeping her eyes shut now. With Dirth’s help, she would calm. Jylan himself was of no use at all.

He should have left her with Dirth because he had upset her and could offer nothing to sooth her. He should have returned to work because at least then there would have been some tangible benefit to his presence today. He should have ignored her to preserve her dignity in this moment of great physical and emotional distress. These were three things Jylan knew he should have done.

 _‘I refuse.’_ He chose to refuse. He chose to approach her and he chose to kneel down in front of her. He understood the risk of doing further harm to her emotional state with his actions, but to simply leave her in this state, or ignore her, or do anything but at least acknowledge her pain was intolerable. It was necessary for him to come up with a more engaging alternative which would also safeguard itself from misconstruing his intentions.

If the only matter at hand was her distress then he would have offered physical comfort: to wipe away tears, to supplant Dirth and take her embrace, to kiss her hair or her brow or her lips. However, that was not the only matter. She was afraid of Samar, and of Samar’s views and suspicions regarding Neria’s interactions with Jylan. If he acted in any way which could be accused or suggested of having romantic tendencies, it would only alarm her further.

That he brushed a lock of her pale, airy white hair from her tearful eyes was not physical comfort: it was simply a method of gaining her attention and ensuring her vision was not obscured as she continued to cry and to hug his dog.

“I can think of nothing else, but to ask you to command me.”

“ _You- what?”_ Neria gasped, her face red and tearful where it was pressed to Dirth’s wide neck.

“You are not the same as her, Neria.” He did not know how else to prove himself to her. “You do not have the same power as her, and even if you did I do not believe you capable of using it with the same force or ignorance she did. You have seen the brand’s effects on me in a way I doubt any other mage has searched before, you know that I am not lying about my condition or its effects. You are incomparable to An’eth, or perhaps it is better stated that she is incomparable with you. I am not wary of you, Neria. Even if you did seek to command me in some way, I know refusal would not lead to punishment.” And so because he could think of nothing else: “Command me.”

“No.”

“Tranquil are not permitted to resist, but in Gwaren I am not bound by the same rules and expectations of the Circles, the Guild, or the Grey Wardens. Command me, and I will refuse you.”

“Jeevan, it’s not fair to you.”

“Command me,” he repeated for a fourth time. “Say it as they would have in the Circles. Say, _‘Tranquil, fetch more water’,_ or _‘Elf, rub my back’_ , or _‘Tranquil, bring me my damn dinner before I have you horsewhipped’_.”

“ _Elgar’nan’s_ _Wrath_ -!” She shouted back at him, holding Dirth tighter still when her voice surprised his mabari. “I’m not talking to you like that! Quit telling me to!” She had commanded him.

“No.” He refused her. “I do not believe you will understand how far my autonomy has expanded unless you challenge it yourself.”

“Quit being an asshole!”

“No,” he refused again. “It is the method of interaction which proves most effective and worthwhile when communicating with you.”

“ _You-_ ” She caught on, and her tears stopped with a soft, shocked gasp. “You- you _jerk._ Fine, stick your tongue out and touch your nose.”

“That is a ridiculous expectation and I will not fulfill it.”

“Tranquil, hop on one foot and cluck like a chicken.”

“Unless I am to be placed in a state of physical duress, I shall conserve my energy for more meaningful actions.”

“And what would you call _meaningful actions?_ ” That question was too ambiguous, and required clarification. It was more important to him that she was smiling and Dirth’s tail was beginning to wag between them.

“Are you commanding me to answer your question?”

“No- _yes._ ” She corrected, nuzzling her face to Dirth’s neck to rub away the tear tracks. “I command you to tell me what meaningful actions you’re conserving your energy for.”

“Then my answer will be that such actions shall be left up to your imagination, as you possess one and I do not.”

“You’re much too clever for that to be entirely true, Master Ashera.”

“And you are much too important to permit yourself such concern for a Tranquil, Midwife Surana.” Her smile faltered because he had misspoken, but it was a brief shadow which passed. Neria shifted on he knees and Dirth lifted his head off of her. She scratched his neck with both hands and rubbed part of his chest, Jylan’s dog responding to this with happy panting and a lazy shift in weight that made him sit on one hip between them.

“Do you feel better, Neria?” He asked this from his crouch in front of her.

“Yes,” she said, her hands still rubbing his dog’s neck and now his shoulders. She took a shaken breath and looked at Dirth, taking his face between her hands and petting him affectionately around his ears and the top of his head. “I won’t be like her.” She promised.

“She is nothing compared to you,” he said, preferring this amended way of explaining the difference. Neria wrapped Dirth up in a close hug around his head. Jylan did not expect her to kiss his dog, but as any of the children would Neria touched her lips between Dirth’s eyes, then again on the bridge of his snout. Dirth’s ears rose and dropped one at a time in a show of mild confusion and tolerant approval, and he stayed with his head tucked close and warm under her chin.

Neria looked at him again, following his eyes with hers before rising to the brand briefly. Back to his eyes with her wide blue gaze, and then down to one side of his face. He had to reach up and touch his cheek where the half-moon scar from his beating had cut a pale line under his eye. The stitches had been removed already, and his siblings each claimed that the scar was less distracting than the brand while also healing much better than expected.

She stroked a similar spot under Dirth’s eye and then looked down to kiss fiercely down on his dog’s brow. She hugged Dirth warm and close until the mabari yawned and began to go drowsy in her arms.

Neria was soothed, and things were better.

 


	44. Palahnelan (End of Book 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note that I skipped a chapter by accident- check the Chapter Index drop-down to see the new content!
> 
> This is the last chapter of Book 2!

 

Between ritual needs, offensive odours, and the threat of possession, there was only so long a family could wait before burning a dead kinsman.

Jylan remained steadfast and would not consent to give coin to Hahren Masao for his nephew’s funeral. In the span of three day, they were visited by him seven times, and each event led to the old man being removed from their front step by Jylan personally.

Denying the Hahren access to their home was worth the cost of missing work at the Twisted Tail, and his employer was rather amicable on the point. Madame Minra even offered Bruiser’s services with the matter and Bruiser himself also seemed open to the idea of picking Masao up and tossing him like an angry goat over the nearest fence. He knew Saya’s opinions of the Hahren and it was very likely that she had been quite talkative on the matter with the Brothel’s Madame and doorman. Jylan ultimately declined their offer, but not without informing both his siblings and Neria of its existence. Samar and Rian had great fun pointing out that at least goats could be cooked up and feasted on. Neria scolded him for turning away a human ally, and then asked just how strong Jylan thought Bruiser was.

He considered it.

“Like, if he just picked up the Hahren, how far do you think he could throw him?” That was a much easier approximation to make.

“Provided he had sound footing, Masao was not squirming too much, and there remained a sheen of ice for him to bounce and skid over, I would offer a conservative estimate of at least ten yards throwing distance.” It seemed reasonable to him and Neria nodded with a thoughtful hum. “However, if Bruiser was also in a state of outrage or anger then I see no valid reason why that distance would not double.”

“Does he get mad easy then?”

“Not that I have witnessed or heard talk of, no.”

Bruiser did not come to their house, but Masao did. For the seventh altercation, he brought with him Revered Mother Sarah from the chantry which served the Alienage and the city’s dock quarter.

Revered Mother Sarah was a stout, pale human woman with a tight knot of auburn hair winched behind her head. She had rough hands and a flat mouth, but also wise, soulful eyes. She had the power to command Masao to silence, and he was a feeble, bobble-headed accessory who misquoted the chant in a manner she must have found endearing or harmless in her wake.

She recognized Jylan as a Tranquil and inquired as to his history in the Circles of Magi. The old, familiar topics of his survival during the Mage-Templar war were traversed in the quiet snowfall of the lane. He consented to walk with her back to the chantry, where it was warmer and she provided him with a hot tea of steeped mint and lavender. Masao, on the other hand, she dismissed. To prevent any incidents in his absence, Jylan left Dirth at home.

The Revered Mother had never served in the Circles of Magi. She had never met or seen a Tranquil before. She did not attempt to command him, and it was unlikely she even assumed such authority was hers to consider. Instead, she spoke to him merely as a competent but stubborn elf, and her efforts to mediate the situation reflected well on her.

His education and familiarity with the Chant of Light and the history of the Chantry, reflected better.

“As Maferath was abandoned by his tribesmen and sworn kin when his betrayal of Andraste was made known, so too has Eli Masao been abandoned by the family he consistently wronged and abused.” He did not misquote the Chant, he did not manipulate the facts of Chantry doctrine. He had spent too many years of his life on his knees with a sharp-edged rod ready to bite into his bare back and shoulders to ramble on in ignorance now. “My brother and sister were forced from their family home by his crude and violent behaviour. My elder sister, legally his wife for over ten years, suffered beatings, humiliation, degradation, and rampant disrespect. Hahren Masao stole forty silver from my younger sister’s dowry, and now he claims we must pay sixty silver for the burning of his nephew. Maferath the Betrayer is known by his actions, not his kinship ties, why should Eli Masao expect better from his lower and less consequential station?”

“Sixty silver!” Revered Mother Sarah gasped at him, breaking her calm composure for the first time in over an hour of conversation. “From one family alone? A funeral in the good and willing light of Andraste’s Flames is only a third of that! It’s less than that for the sailors who die far from home in a foreign port, but I’ve still never expected such a sum from the _alienage_. I minister to you and your neighbours, Master Ashera, I know what your means make available to the Chantry.”

“You ask that I should donate the monthly income of four siblings to burn a man who drank himself to death in disgrace?” He asked, and she took a breath, wincing in sympathy at his description. Sixty silver or only twenty, he would not let the Hahren claim this stand-off as a victory for himself. “A death which came upon him after he boasted before his own children and wife that I, personally, should have died in the custody of the city authorities?”

“Charity and forgiveness are the cornerstones of any community.”

“Then the charity should come from the community at large, whose hearts the Hahren has not stirred,” he argued. “Instead, he has made a commotion and embarrassment of his own office by harassing my family and now imposing upon your time and authority to bolster his own flagging popularity. I am Tranquil, Revered Mother, I no longer feel the sting of hatred, the slow sickening poison of resentment, or the burn of anger and insult. I am Tranquil, severed from the realm of dreams and taken from the seducing arms of all emotion. I do not reject the Hahren because I am angry, I reject him because I see no reason to burden my family further now that the one who committed so much harm against us has been taken to the Maker’s side. My siblings have given their prayers that Eli may find salvation and peace in the arms of the Maker, and they pray that He will dislodge whatever bitterness and hate made Eli so terrible for our family to endure. We are a poor family with many young children and unmarried siblings, why must our freedom from abuse be weighed down by a measure of silver?”

She was very quiet for several long moments after he finished speaking. Ideally, she would conduct herself in a respectful manner. Jylan was not entirely convinced that she would do so, as he was Tranquil and had survived an extremely negative existence within the Circle of Magi, but she did not seem well versed in the behaviour of power in such far away and now long-crumbled establishments. She was a Chantry Mother from a poor labouring city quarter, not a Grand Cleric accustomed to silks and fine wine.

“You are… _remarkably_ well spoken.” Her first words to him were a compliment. “And… I hear much sense behind your words. I am not ignorant of Eli Masao’s faults in life, although Andraste teaches us honour and respect for the departed souls of our loved ones. As you have raised a _troubling_ issue with the costs of the funeral, have you considered instead a modest and more manageable donation to the Chantry itself?” He had not, but was willing to consider the possibility now.

“All of my labours in a month combine to a total of five silver,” he offered this information without reference to the money he already possessed or the pay which arrived monthly from Amaranthine. “Would such a sum be worth the notice of the Chantry?”

“ _Nothing_ given is too small, my child.” From sixty silver down to five, and it was money given to the Chantry, not into Hahren Masao’s hands. This, if pressed, Jylan could consent to. “But- tell me, are you well-read?”

“I do not have much time for reading, but I possess the skill itself and as one of the Tranquil I am easily instructed from the pages of books.”

She fetched an old book of prayers scribed in Justinian and opened it to a page, presenting it to him. Although his voice was toneless, he read the prayer easily before giving the book back. The book, like much of her office, smelled of crushed cardamom and sweet beeswax.

“Do you write as well as you read?”

“Yes, Revered Mother.”

“Have you any mind for numbers?”

“I have kept accounts and records of workshop expenses and inventories. I maintained extensive correspondence during my employment in Amaranthine.”

They reached a compromise he considered acceptable. In exchange for one day’s voluntary labour a week scribing records and accounts for the Chantry, the matter of Eli Masao’s slowly decaying body would finally vanish. Jylan was able to take the compromise home to his siblings, and the next day he and Rian returned to the Chantry together.

“Revered Mother Sarah,” his brother was not a strong-willed person, but Rian was eager to try his hand with something he would not explain to Jylan. “My brother says you need a scribe, and that there’s goodness in doing the Maker’s Work even if it’s as small as sums and names on a ledger.” He folded his hands together tightly, and Jylan doubted the squirming distress on his face was an act. “My brother works so hard, Mother, he has two jobs every day which take him across the city and back. My hand in Trade is as neat as his, and my Justinian is slower but just as even and good, but really, Mother, I’m here because my heart _needs_ something more than just work and rest. Jeevan’s writing is incredible, I know, but this is a matter of putting Eli to rest and healing the alienage, isn’t it? Jeevan doesn’t have it in him to be bitter or angry, but I do, Mother, and I _am_.”

Jylan had not known this. He remained silent and watched his brother’s composure begin to crumble. The Revered Mother was half out of her chair in concern for his watery eyes and struggling voice.

“I’m so angry, and I’ve been _so angry_ for so long I’ve forgotten what not being angry feels like,” Rian admitted to both of them, his chin trembling from stress. “I hate a dead man, and I hate his aging uncle, and I _know_ it’s wrong of me, Mother, but just singing the Chant and trying to read the words isn’t good enough. I hate the Masaos, but I love my family and I can’t keep watching my younger brother do _everything_ to fix this mess with the Hahren. My soul needs good work and my hands need to help my family. Please, I’ll beg if I have to: please help me, please _let me help_.”

The Revered Mother was out of her chair and in front of them at once, quickly taking Rian’s hand in hers and placing her other on Jylan’s arm.

“You did not tell me you felt this way,” he told his brother. Rian looked at him and he was crying, and now it occurred to him that perhaps he was not simply a weak-willed person, but someone who did not know what else to do but cry.

“The last person I did was _Mamae_ ,” he choked back, and the Revered Mother squeezed his hand until they both looked at her. She spoke to Jylan instead of Rian.

“Do have any objections to your brother taking over what we discussed?” She asked him, and the answer was simple.

“No. To me it is only more labour and another place I must make arrangements to visit. For Rian there is a spiritual and emotional benefit to serving the Chantry.”

“Then it is that simple,” she agreed, and with a firm nod she looked at Rian again, releasing Jylan’s arm and using both hands now to clasp Rian’s. She smiled at him and it was warm of her. “Dry your eyes, good child. The Maker’s forgiveness is always ready to any who have the courage to reach for it. You will do good works in His name, and you will find peace.”

“And Eli’s body?” Rian choked again.

“I have already spoken with his uncle,” she answered him kindly, but a quick dash of something crossed her face before vanishing. “And I found some of his answers concerning. I have known Jerrin for many years. He is very full of love and praise for the Maker, but these last few years without Heshra have been hard on him. The Chantry will look after its lost and wayward son, and we will see him sent to his Maker’s side.”

It was settled. Rian took the weekly penance like a liberation, and Eli burned without a shard of silver leaving their hands. The Hahren was howling mad with Rian but made no move against him, and either did not know or dismissed Jylan’s contribution entirely. How could he fight back from this? Rian was serving the Chantry, he was doing the Maker’s Work. Masao had been given the funeral he demanded, without the silver to profit from it, and he had no way to twist volunteer hours in the Chantry’s back room into a slight against good morals.

When Neria returned the money Jylan had given her after the anticipated conflict had expired, he bade her take ten of the pieces to the Chantry.

“What! Why?”

“It will reflect well on you,” he explained to her, but she remained offended. “The good favour of the Revered Mother is likely worth the cost. I do not know her mind regarding the Dalish, but she is sensible enough around coin. Give her your thanks for her part in resolving the matter outstanding between the Masaos and the Asheras, and leave the silver with her.”

“This is _your money_ and _your god_ , I’m not doing it!”

“It is not a religious tribute, Neria, it is merely a political gesture.”

“Asshole _Palahnelan!_ You already sound like a Hahren!” Her behaviour was verbose, but not nearly sharp enough to indicate real anger with him.

“I will not be Hahren,” he corrected her. “But if you will consent to this gesture, then I will present you with a small token of appreciation.”

“You can’t bribe me, I will not be bribed.” Her folded arms and tapping foot only served to prove her curiosity. She could very easily be bribed. “What is it?”

“You will find out after you have performed the gesture. It is not your money, Neria, but it is your reputation.”

“If it’s a jar of elfroot I’m going to make you eat it.”

“It is not a jar of elfroot, it took significantly longer to make.” His remark surprised and then confused her.

“It’s not the ward, that’s still sitting half-finished on my shelf.” She was very correct. He had completed the appropriately sized flowers, formed and carved the hoop, and inlaid the copper wire, but the ward was not finished. He had only twisted and hooked about half the inner web from more wires cured and cut with volatile lyrium runes, the rest he would finish this week. “ _What is it?_ ”

“Perform the gesture or you will never find out,” he told her.

She stomped her feet, called Dirth to her so she could rub her hands around his dog’s face and baby-talk him about how stubborn and unfair Jylan was being towards her, and then she went, presumably, to the Chantry.

When she returned, he gave her the completed heartwood amulet. He explained to her that there was no lyrium or enchantments to be found within it, therefore if she did not find it pleasing-

“I _love it,_ ” -good. That was good. She gasped and her face lit up with a beautiful smile when he gave it to her, and she cradled the softly carved and richly stained amulet in both hands. She took her excitement so far as to hop about in place while admiring the copper flower, which she recognized as the one she had asked him not to pull apart. Despite all of this however, there was one part of her reaction which he did not understand at all.

“Why are you embracing my dog?”

“Because he’s a _good boy_ , isn’t he?” She had gone from dancing about to dropping on her knees, and she was still there. Neria had the amulet and its cord clutched in one hand, both her arms swung around Dirth’s strong neck and shoulders as his dog lolled his pink tongue and panted happily at the attention. “And he’s so much _fun to hug,_ isn’t he? Did you see what your master gave me? Did you help him make it?”

“Dirthamen is a dog,” Jylan reminded her. No, his dog had not assisted him in the crafting process.

“ _Yes he is_ ,” the babbling continued and she remained on her knees hugging his dog. “And he’s the _biggest, scariest, meanest old_ war dog in the entire _alienage,_ isn’t he? Are you a big, mean, scary dog?” Dirth’s ears drooped slightly and he gave a brief whine. His reaction made her laugh brightly and pull out of her hug, reassuring Dirth that she did not in fact consider him mean or scary. But she maintained that he was very big, and when she began to scratch his belly Jylan’s mabari immediately flopped on his back and stretched his legs out to make the belly-scratch easier to perform.

Very well, it was clear she found more interest in his mabari than in his gift. He did not know how to prompt her to say as much without dimming her laughing mood, so Jylan chose to abandon the topic completely. That she took to wearing the amulet did not in and of itself convince him that she considered it of any value.

What mattered most was that the terrible stress of Eli’s funeral was finally able to pass, only for Jylan to realize that the funeral had established a baseline sense of urgency and anxiety in his family’s home. He had not anticipated this, he did not know how to remedy it, but he was quite certain he knew where to lay the blame for it.

The elder Omanan, the uncle-figure who had known their father and shamed Saya for her pregnancy, had come to their home again and again over the passing days. He was talkative and friendly, but always with a sense that something was being left unsaid and an approach with something left untaken. It felt like speaking to Archmage Surana, or First Enchanter Irving. Omanan was not nearly close to the level of cleverness and danger as the two mages, but he had the same slippery nature to him.

Omanan came to their house and brought with him pillar after pillar after pillar from the alienage community into their house, and if his siblings knew why then none of them told Jylan until it was too late.

These unexpected guests were served tea and hot bread and Rian took time away from work to meet with them along with Samar. Jylan, when he was home, was compelled to sit in the family room despite having nothing to contribute and no valid reason for remaining present.

Neria had come to some of these meetings, but not all. They were all conversations which circled around who would become Hahren if Masao was removed from power. Traditionally, the title should have fallen to Eli, but practically that would never have worked due to his horrid personality and lack of responsible leadership skills. While some of their neighbours were in favour of a traditional waiting period for Sanjay to take up the mantle as Eli’s eldest child, that still left the matter of who would lead them for the interim ten years until Sanjay came of age.

Jylan took issue with the suggestion that Sanjay was the eldest, not Jeevan, who was _in fact_ Eli and Ariyah’s eldest child. Yes, he understood that it was a matter of Jeevan possessing the talent of magic, but it was still factually incorrect to refer to Sanjay as the eldest when he was not the eldest. Rian and Jylan introduced themselves as their parents’ second and third sons _of four_ regardless of the fact that Damen had been dead for years. Jenna remained the seventh _of seven_ even though only six of their siblings were alive. Sanjay had not ascended to the position of eldest because his elder brother was still alive, and nothing would change that.

But Jeevan was ignored and treated as though he did not exist by the community’s elders, and that was simply how the matter was going to rest. The only Jeevan they were willing to consider was Jylan himself, and they were uncompromising on this point. If he would not be Hahren for life, then his name was used liberally to describe the person who would lead the alienage until Sanjay reached adulthood and could prove himself worthy of the title himself. Jylan’s complaints and arguments against such an appointment were hushed or ignored or over-simplified.

“You desire to have an elf with no capacity for emotions dictate whom among the young should marry?”

“You’ve a rational head for numbers and half of what the Hahren does is just hammer out the dowry arrangements anyways.”

“I was arrested not a month ago by the city guards, but you would suggest me as the primary mediator between the alienage and the authorities?”

“You were arrested, yes, but then tried by the _Queen of Ferelden_ and released with full pardons. I think I’d quite like someone who has the Queen’s favour helping keep willful sailors from being locked up for longer than their drinks last.”

“The Chantry will never stand for a Tranquil in a position of such authority.”

“It’s really not _much_ authority outside the Alienage, you know.” That did not matter. “Revered Mother Sarah is over the moon about you, says your education serves you well.”

“As does Rian’s,” he argued, “but I do not hear you suggesting Rian as Hahren, when in fact, I would encourage you to do so: Rian is an objectively better candidate for this suggested change in leadership.”

“You leave me right out of this, Jeevan.”

“He is older than I am,” Jylan continued, ignoring his brother in the chair next to him. “He has lived in Gwaren his entire life. He is the younger brother of Eli’s widow, educated, and a citizen in good standing with the city guards and his employers at the Eighth Lion Merchant Fleet.” His brother pinched him sharply under the table. Jylan’s response was to stare at him outright until Rian shrank back.

This did not work in his favour.

“There is _no point_ ,” Old Oma said with a beaming grin. “In having a Hahren who crumbles at the cold stare from his own younger brother. Rian, you will make a fine husband as you are already a fine brother and uncle, but the alienage’s leadership is not quite right for you yet.”

“Thank the _Maker_ ,” his brother wheezed.

“The Bashar, Serras, and Velhaen families have members our age,” Jylan tried a different argument. It was only a loose tradition which would put Sanjay in a position to become Hahren, and tradition could be over-ruled. “Eolan, or Hallin, or-”

“My Hallin can hardly write his name for the harbourmaster,” Hallin’s grandmother stated, toothless and yet stubborn as old wood at their table. “ _You_ can read the Chant of Light.”

“Such an appointment would be unwise, and ultimately may not even come to pass.”

“It will pass,” the ancient woman smacked her gums at him, then smiled at Omanan. “And then we’ll get the Hahren a pretty new wife, and his mood will improve, yes?”

“Tranquil do not marry,” Jylan stated.

“ _All_ young men marry, _Palahnelan._ ” An odd glint passed through her eyes, and her attention shifted from Jylan to Samar, who was opposite Rian beside him. She lifted her thin cane in one frail hand and thumped the end of it on the table, calling attention. “And the first dowry the new Hahren will sort out will be my Hallin’s, because his Hamae is tired of waiting.”

“Hey now,” Samar mumbled at her, but she was not having it.

“You are past thirty and a boatswain with both parents at the Maker’s side.”

“Yes, but I’m not-”

“Because you are older and Hallin is only a rigger on his ship, we will pay the dowry. When the _Palahnelan_ becomes _Hahren_ he will see this matter settled at last.”

“ _Hamae_ , that’s not what Hallin _wants_ ,” his brother protested, but his face was also going very, very flush.

“He says he wants children!” She harrumphed at him. “He says as much, but won’t look at any woman twice. As soon as you’re both in port together he won’t leave you alone for more than a few hours. He tried and he stayed away from you this winter and he couldn’t do it. I know this, our entire family knows it, because he stood at the window and _sighed_ without any spirit left in him until Essie’s baby was born. You will _marry_ my grandson, Samar Ashera, and your _brother_ will officiate it, and it is with _him_ that my son and his wife will negotiate the dowry for Hallin. You both have nieces and nephews enough to help raise, and the Maker is merciful but not always kind. Eventually a child in the alienage will need more than their surviving family can support, and you will be there, _married_ , to provide it.”

Samar offered absolutely nothing after this. He was flustered, and embarrassed, but there was no temper in him to tell the old woman off for her demand. Jylan had known his brother and Hallin were close, but it had not occurred to him that their relationship was romantic or sexual. They regularly went out to dine and drink together, and took the children to market together, and performed chores and errands about the alienage together, and offered help and repairs to one another’s homes, and exchanged small gifts, and- oh.

Jylan continued to look at his brother but clearly violated some standard by the length of time spent watching him.

“ _What?_ ” Samar grew gruff with him, but was not outright aggressive. He was too embarrassed and humbled to be angry. “What-? You’re just figuring this out _now?_ ”

“Yes.”

“Lucky _bastard..._ ” Rian complained, and was tutted at by the grandmother to mind his language. “Sorry, Hamae, but if Hallin spends his time sighing then that’s not as bad as Samar always going to pieces and-”

“-I’m gonna hit you with the Hahren if you don’t shut up _right now, Rian.”_

“Masao is not here,” Jylan said, but the meaning clicked as soon as he said it. Samar gave him a sharp look, and it was not clear if he was bluffing or not.

“Fine, I’ll hit him with the _Palahnelan_ , better?”

“No.” Jylan’s answer made the table chuckle, easing some of the tension in the people around him. This quiet break was what permitted him to ask a question. “Are you open to committing yourself to Hallin?”

Rather than flare up at him, Samar went very quiet, and very serious.

“You asking if I love him?”

“No, I asked if you are willing to commit to him.”

“Do- do I want to _marry_ him?”

“That is closer to my meaning, but again not what I asked.” His brother clearly did not understand that his question had been put as simply as it could be. He was required to explain himself: “Love is an emotion, but commitment is a decision. Marriage is a commitment which flourishes when supported by romantic love, but does not require it, as it is the commitment which yields the partnership. Marriages without love can still succeed. Marriages without commitment will always fail.”

“ _Rian would make a better Hahren_ , he says,” Rian mocked a high, nasally voice. “And then he says something like _that_.” Jylan turned to look at him, as Samar was still frozen in thought.

“I did not say anything, I asked a question.”

“You asked the most _Hahren-ly_ Hahren question a Hahren could ever ask,” Rian was exasperated with him but his sentence didn’t make sense, and-

“Yes.” Jylan reconsidered his remark to Rian and looked back at Samar. Their brother was still sitting with his arms folded defensively over his chest, but his face was calm and he was watching Jylan closely. “My answer’s yes, but _only_ if Hallin-” The grandmother at their table threw her spindly arms in the air with a loud cheer.

“Hallin’s Hamae says yes!”

“Not _you_ , Hamae,” Samar bit back, but then squirmed in his chair with guilt over his tone. “Hallin. Has to say yes. None of this by-proxy bullshit-”

“Language,” Jylan reminded him and was pinched again by Rian. Next time, he would not sit between the two of them.

The Hamae was smacking her palms on the table and bouncing with sheer delight, cackling all the while.

“Where were you five years ago when this should have happened?” She crooned at Jylan. “I like him! Oh, Oma, lets go pull the wreath and shroud off Jerrin’s mantle _right now_.” Jylan did not know what she was referring to exactly, but it was probably something to do with the Hahren’s leadership.

“ _Patience,_ Ninima.” Omanan purred, and it reminded Jylan of the way Enchanters had judged apprentices when choosing who they would take on to mentor. “Jerrin’s lost his touch these last few years, but he’s earned his mourning first. If he’s wise, he’ll act first and invite his challenger to a public talk and the alienage can judge who they want by watching them. If he’s stupid, he’ll fold his ears over and pretend he has no idea what’s going on in the neighbourhood.”

Considering what Jylan knew of Hahren Masao’s behaviour, he was inclined to believe it would be the latter. This would have suited him had the elders made any attempt to nominate a proper successor to Masao other than Jylan, who was absolutely not suited to the position. It was not appropriate for him to have garnered such consideration.

“The Hahren must preside over holiday and ritual events.” Just about the only person in his expanding circle of acquaintance who did not snub his arguments or protests against the appointment was Neria. She did not laugh at him, or twist his words, or pat him on the shoulder and call him a good young man, so very like his father. Any similarity between Jylan and his father would have been wiped out by the Rite anyways.

“They must give speeches at weddings and funerals,” he protested. He resisted. On this point, he was allowed to resist. “They must speak both privately and publicly to resolve matters of dispute between communities and family members. The Hahren speaks on behalf of elves who are arrested or run afoul with the law. The business of the alienage becomes the business of the Hahren, and as a Tranquil I have neither the social awareness nor the rhetorical tact to adopt such sweeping responsibilities.”

“I’m going to ask a stupid question,” Neria said, looking up at him from over the leather glove she was stitching on the table, next to the enchanted wires he was twisting and knotting together to try and finish her ward. They were in her house and the elfroot was curing in a thick brine overnight. “Before the Rite, did you get nervous before speaking in front of people?”

“I spoke to many people before the Rite.”

“I mean- speeches. Did you ever have to stand in front of a big group and say something to them?”

“I was made to recite portions of the Chant of Light, when required, to congregations comprised mostly of the tower’s apprentice population.”

“Are those good memories?”

“No.”

“Were you a popular apprentice? Did you have a lot of friends who could watch you?”

“No.”

“Then it sounds like you’re more at odds with giving speeches than making decisions, Jeevan. Didn’t you once tell me you’d made it a point to write out reforms and changes for your guild, just because?”

“Yes.”

“And haven’t you stopped telling people not to call you _Palahnelan?_ ”

“They were not listening, so I stopped.”

“Jeevan Ashera,” she said, dropping her work a little and looking at him sharply enough that he also paused his work at the table. “I’ve heard you repeat _‘I am Tranquil and therefore unaffected’_ so many times one would wish you’d go hoarse. You’ve accepted that you’re Masao’s challenger, now I know you can’t be nervous or anxious about becoming Hahren, but face facts: you’re going to be Hahren, and you have _no idea_ what that change is going to be like.”

He had absolutely no idea what trying to lead a community would be like. He had held seniority over other members of the Formari Guildsmen, but very little rank or authority before his dispatch to Vigil’s Keep. Even then, his distance from the guild had kept him more or less isolated from the other Tranquil. He had earned enough professional credit to begin making suggestions, arguments, and amendments for the Guild Charter, but the decision regarding whether to listen to any of it had never been his, and he had never argued for any of it in person with Owain.  

Neria gave him time to think, but when he went too long without answering her she reached out and touched his hand, the contact muted by the rough work gloves he was wearing. Her eyes were kind and calm, and she even deigned to smile at him.

“If you were absolutely _convinced_ that you would fuck this up, Jeevan, then you wouldn’t let the elders bully you about it.” She spoke to him warmly and it was very pleasing. “You’d dig in your heels, you’d flat out refuse to talk to _any_ of them, and you’d have given Omanan a goose egg for coming around your house without your permission. You’re not scared and you’re not nervous, but you’re plenty smart enough to know to be cautious.”

He considered her words. Her phrasing had captured the essence of the matter.

“While it may be conceivable for me to perform the tasks and responsibilities of a Hahren, there is considerable reason to doubt my proficiency in such matters.” She did not tune him out when he tried to explain himself as clearly as he considered possible, but he had seen others withdraw from him when he began to use words he suspected they simply did not know. He attempted, crudely, to simplify himself. “I am not, as you say, absolutely convinced that I will fuck this up, Neria, but I still expect it to end that way.”

“Then I think you’re ready to be Hahren.” Her conclusion did not make sense to him, at least not until he considered the possibility that caution and humility were aspects necessary for such leadership. Still, it did not seem that way to him: Archmage Surana had no use for either trait. “Now here, try this on and see how it fits.”

“Are these gloves not for Rian?”

“No, I already finished those.” She explained, giving him the soft calf-skin she’d been stitching together. “But there wasn’t enough skin for gloves and boots like Ariyah wanted, so I got to keep the extra. Take Rian his gloves tonight when you go, but tell me if this one fits or not.”

“The lining is very soft,” he had not taken note of the fleecy lining until now. Since leaving Amaranthine his hands had begun to suffer in the harsher, deeper cold of southern Ferelden. It was not a failure of his clothes or attendance to his own needs, simply the nature of his work where his hands were repeatedly dunked in water and harsh soap throughout the day. Much damage could be mediated by applying lard or rendered fat to the skin, but the colder the city became the more his fingers began to crack and his palms dry out. The materials for a higher quality cream, the butter for which could be beaten from imported nuts, were simply too expensive to justify purchasing in the dead of winter. Next year, he would be better prepared.

“Soft is good, but that’s not what I asked you.”

“It is tight at the knuckles.” The fingers had not yet been sewn. She held out her hand for the glove and he gave it back to her. It was a simple matter for her to resize and modify the stitches. Her fingers, though deft in their work, were as abused as his. “Should you not provide for yourself first?”

“Wouldn’t be a gift if I kept them.”

“Why are you giving me a gift?”

Neria hooked a thumb around a cord at her neck and drew out the marigold amulet. He had not expected her to be wearing it.

“ _That_ ,” she noted the ward left unfinished in front of him. “-is my First Day gift, the one I asked for like a child. This?” The amulet. “This was just you being nice. So _these,_ ” the gloves, “-are me also being nice.”

“That is a significant quantity of labour,” he noted.

“Oh and that _isn’t_?” She asked, indicating the ward again, then with a fluster she went back to her gloves. “If I’d- known how much _work_ went into enchanting I’d have- I dunno, hunted down _bear fur_ or something to make up for it. A horse hide satchel seems a bit bare next to an enchanted dream ward.”

“The satchel is highly suited to my needs and is both durable and of skilled construction.” The bag she was referring to was currently strung across the back of the chair he was sitting in. Hanging it thusly prevented it from being kicked or scuffed on the floor, and it did not take up any space on the table which was actively cluttered with bits of leather, metal, and woodwork. Neria had poured him a small tin cup of vodka and water, but as both of them were more busy working than sitting and talking, they had not drunk much.

She smiled at him, albeit in a crooked manner.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you liked it.” He considered this. Tranquil had not been permitted to find favour when making distinctions. But this was a small distinction, and he was not in the Circles.

“I would choose it over objects of similar size and quality,” he told her. “And it is of objectively high quality as well as aesthetically pleasing. I would not willingly part with or sell it, although I would be incapable of any distress over its destruction or loss. Ultimately, I do not think it is altogether wrong of me to say that yes: I do like it, insofar as I am not indifferent to it.”

“I’m going to take that compliment for what it’s worth and say _thank you_ , Messer.” There was a certain satisfaction which came from being properly understood despite his own ineptitude.

Busy mornings at the brothel, loud afternoons with the elders, and quiet evenings with Neria created a rhythm over the two weeks following his release from the city prison. The event which stuck out amidst it all came from Zevran.

“If you are to make a move against the Hahren, you must do so quickly,” was his solemn warning. “I cannot afford to tarry many more days here in Gwaren. I must be south by Wintersend, and we are already almost half-way through Wintermarch.” Wintersend would be at the end of this month, the first day of Guardian.

“I thought you said you’d be here until your business was done?” Samar asked him in their living room after the family and the assassin had dined together. Portioned chicken rubbed with sharp red spices and served with a thick white yogurt cooled with mint, hot bread and thick creamy potatoes. Jylan could not eat the chicken for the intensity of the spices, but Ariyah had left enough of the heat off of the other items on the table for him to eat a satisfying meal. “Why are you waiting around for the Hahren?” Zevran’s answer was a crooked smile.

“Is it not obvious by now that my business itself was to see your brother safely settled in Gwaren?” Jylan had leaned towards such an assumption for several weeks now, but it was good to hear Zevran confirm it himself. “Every time I have thought that perhaps it was safe to make my good-byes, something has come up. The infant, Formari Cyril, the arrest, the Hahren’s harassment- it goes on and on with just enough risk to tell me I remain needed. But I _cannot_ linger in the city much longer. I have given you my winter and perhaps if the fates deem it proper I shall return again briefly in the summer, but I _must_ be south for spring.”

“Do you anticipate that your presence will be necessary when Masao is confronted?” Jylan asked, speaking over Rian’s babbling efforts to pose the same question.

“I would rather be here than not, just in case.”

“The elders have said they will not challenge Masao until after his mourning ends,” he explained. “We will be well into Guardian by that point, as it is a month and a day from the funeral date. If you are required elsewhere, then you must simply decide where it is that you feel your presence is of greater value. You must also consider the fact that Omanan and the others may not wish to speak of such things on the same day Masao’s mourning ends, and the issue may not be resolved in a single afternoon, but over several more weeks. Another candidate for Masao’s replacement may also step forward, complicating the matter as I doubt Omanan will listen if I protest against him.”

“Your uncle certainly does think himself quite the Kingmaker, doesn’t he?” It was a smug but rhetorical question which Jylan did not answer. “Then I suppose it is decided, though I need not revel in the prospect. I do _hate_ a job left unfinished.”

“You have been a significant aid to my family, Master Arainai. I would offer more than simple thanks if I were aware of how to proceed.”

“I have a belt and kit of lovely creations all from your hand, Master Ashera,” the assassin purred to him, patting the bandolier across his chest with fondness. “The greatest gift you could give me would be a promise to live well.” Very well, it was a promise freely given.

Zevran suggested one last day and night in Gwaren to make his final preparations to leave and he agreed to dine with their family again the next evening. Jylan and Dirth detoured on their mid-morning walk home from the Twisted Tail to purchase two bottles of wine and a ham haunch for said dinner, and returned through the alienage gates to a curious scene unfolding in the central square.

Elves were gathered under the _Vehenadhal_ , its barren branches still snaking through the grey sky, sunlight filtering brief and cold through the clouds. There were curious whispers and the occasional shout, followed by a loud banging noise which made Jylan pause and take note of. All attention was focused on the Hahren’s house.

He moved to continue home. He was not Hahren, and this was not his business no matter what Omanan said.

“ _Masao!_ ” The thrashing sound continued. “ _Masao!_ Open this fucking door!” Jylan stopped. That was Rian’s voice. Very well, it was now his business.

Jylan walked and did not reach the edge of the crowd before Zevran approached him. His hood was down and his cloak was catching the cold breeze, his face clouded with harsh anger. Jylan stopped in case the assassin’s rage was somehow directed at him, though he doubted it, and was gestured at to walk with him back through the crowd as they took note of his arrival.

“It seems I have my wish for resolution,” he said in a gruff, angry way. “Say but the word, and no one will ever see the Hahren again.” That was a very strongly worded threat and Jylan could appreciate the very serious overtone of the assassin’s voice.

“You would leave such a decision to me?” he asked.

“Only if you will take his place,” Zevran cut back. He was angry with the situation, not Jylan. “I will not open a wound with one hand without the balm to heal it in the other. That is one lesson, at least, that I have learned well from a friend.” Jylan did not possess the imaginative force necessary to piece together what exactly was going on to make Zevran this angry.

The muttering and talk from the gathered, curious elves in the quarter turned from confusion to confirmation of something, with many eyes and whispers turning to Jylan with recognition before looking back at the house.

Zevran melted away from his side and Jylan entered the icy stretch of beaten snow between the grand tree and Masao’s crooked stone house. The black mourning curtain was no longer hanging over the door, Rian had ripped it down and was standing on it, beating his fist on the old wood and shouting. He didn’t have his scarf and his green coat was unbuttoned, his cheeks and ears flush under the messy brown mop of his short hair. He pounded on the door and then stepped back, kicking his heel up and bashing at it. The door shuddered, but did not give.

As for his words, Rian’s lips spat El’vhen and Rivaini curses. Jylan didn’t need to know what was said precisely because the meaning came across even to his untrained ears. Although it was objectively good for Rian to express a sense of backbone and assertiveness, losing all sense of himself and raging outside the Hahren’s home was not what Jylan had intended for him.

“ _Jeevan-_ ” He saw his sister and her children but Neria reached him first. She nearly slipped in the snow and he held out a hand to steady her, which she took. “A few of the youths went to find you and bring you back.”

“I was at the market,” he explained, assuming that the runners sent to the brothel had either returned already or would do so shortly without him. “What is going on?”

“Masao took Sanjay.” Her explanation was suitably brief and to the point.

“Into the house?” Jylan clarified.

“Yes.” She was angry, but more-so afraid of what was happening. Her cheeks were blushed from the cold and she, like Rian, had the distinct look of someone who had hurried out into the cold rather than prepared for it. Her scarf was loose around her throat, her gloves missing. “He said Sanjay is going to be Hahren, so he’s going to live with him now. That’s it- he just- _grabbed him_ by the arm while the children were playing together and dragged him into the house.”

He looked again to his sister and Ariyah had noted him. She was holding Anu to her shoulder and shuffled Tahir and Raveena along in front of her, the children bundled up in their new coats but their mother wearing only her shawl. Ariyah had been crying and there was no anger or robustness to her as she came to him.

Jylan heard Dirth growling, but only noticed it now because it stopped so his mabari could approach Raveena and butt his head down on her chest, the little girl wrapping her arms tight around the hound’s head for comfort. Tahir came to Jylan instead, and he lifted his nephew up, leaving the market purchases on the snow to accommodate him. The boy hugged him very tight and pointed at the house, crying quietly.

“ _Do something_ ,” Ariyah pleaded, reaching with one arm and looking for a hug which Jylan also accommodated. Anu recognized him and leaned away from her mother briefly, but when they parted she remained attached to Ariyah’s shoulder. “Anything, Jeevan, I don’t know what to do-”

“Where is Samar?” He asked.

“Gathering his shipmates.”

“How long has it been?”

“An hour?” Neria answered. “Not even. Here, let me take him.” She held out her arms for Tahir and the young boy complained loudly as Jylan unwound his tight grip and handed him over. Very well, he would do something.

Rian had stopped shouting and was pacing in the snow, frustrated and clutching at his anger like a rosary as Jylan approached him. Dirth was trotting beside him, ears up and nostrils wide as his dog began to growl again. Rian turned from the door and met him a few paces away from it.

“He’s barred it,” Rian explained through clenched teeth. “And locked. There’s no other door, just that tiny window there. I don’t know where we’ll get anything big enough for the sailors to batter it down.” A single wooden beam would not be sufficient, but several lashed together would take time to fix in place with nails or rope.

“Send for Revered Mother Sarah at the Chantry,” Jylan stated. “Do not go yourself, Rian. Have whoever you choose tell her that Hahren Masao requires her aid and that the alienage is a state of unrest.”

“I’ll tell her that _we_ need her help, not _him!_ ” Rian argued, which was unlike him but remained a good thing.

“The situation will speak for itself, Rian,” he explained, because his brother was clever enough for such things. “Appeal to her sense of friendship and good faith in Masao, then let her be disappointed and move of her own accord to act against him.”

“This isn’t the time for games!”

“Then go.” His brother started to protest, then reconsidered. Rian stormed off and barked at the crowd, calling a name and demanding if the other elf would come with him or not.

Jylan looked to the house. The sloped roof was not high off the ground and the chimney was spitting out ribbons of grey smoke. It would not be so difficult for anyone of able strength to climb up and either wrap the chimney’s mouth with a blanket or cover it with something else. However, given the Hahren’s age and Sanjay’s possible state of terror over his situation, smoking Masao out was not worth the risk of the old man succumbing very quickly to the smoke and leaving the child to suffocate in fear. Therefore, he disregarded the idea.

The window was not large. The glass was thick and braced with wood. To kick it in would be possible if a crate or large box was dragged over, but Jylan did not think he would be able to fit through the opening. If he could not fit, then Dirth could not fit, and Dirth would certainly be the most fitting candidate to terrorize Masao into opening the door. He disregarded the idea of himself or his dog entering the house.

Neria may have fit through the window, or at least her hand which could then lob some manner of spell into the house. However, magic would risk harming Sanjay, and it would most certainly jeopardize Neria’s position and ability to remain in the alienage. He disregarded that idea as well, magic would not serve them here.

If he listened carefully, as the quiet in the square permitted, he could hear the quiet peal of a child crying inside the house, and the gruff, angry voice shouting him down.

“Uncle Jee!” He looked at the sound of his name and saw Jeevan, the young mage running to him with snow all over his clothes and in his tangled brown hair, his freckled nose blushed from the cold. His eyes were very red with signs of frustrated crying, and he didn’t stop until he was right in front of Jylan and reached up to grab his cloak. “Tell me how to help him.”

“Your uncles have gone to the Chantry and to gather friends,” he said. “Sanjay will be returned unharmed.”

“Tell me how to help him _now_ ,” his nephew growled up through clenched teeth, tears making his eyes watery. “Tell me- _show me._ I can do it- I know I can. Uncle _please_.”

 “Go to your mother and hug her tightly, that will-”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it!” The boy shouted, pulling hard and snapping with Jylan’s cloak trying to yank him around. With the ice it was sufficient to make him stumble but little else. “Show me what to do! Draw it for me!” He wanted to use magic. Magic would not help them here.

“Jeevan, the matter will be resolved shortly.” Once Rian and Samar both returned from their respective errands.

“ _He has my brother!_ ” Jeevan shrieked at him.

“I know, and you must remain calm.”

“Like _you?_ No!” Now was not the appropriate time to dwell on Jylan’s emotional absence from the situation. “He hurts everyone- he scares _everyone!_ _Show me what to do!_ ”

“Jeevan!” Neria hurried quickly to them, and Jylan presumed by her tone of voice that she was speaking to the child and not him. “Where have you _been?_ Come quickly, your mother-”

“ _No!_ ” He shouted again, but when he made to spin away Jylan quickly caught him around one arm to keep him from running at the door. “He’s my brother! Let go! Sanjay! _Sanjay!_ ” Neria swept in and took the young mage by both his arms and Jylan released him, his nephew kicking and screaming violently as he was dragged back.

“Jerrin!” Omanan’s voice cut over the snow. Jylan looked where Neria and his nephew were struggling to reach the base of the great tree. The _Vehenadhal’_ s roots were so large and so close to the house that its foundations had buckled over them, creating the distinctive slant that made Masao’s home stand out.

The old black elf knocked his cane hard on the ice, and Omanan walked forward.

“Jerrin! Enough of this!” He called out, his voice wizen and aged enough that it didn’t carry very well. “You’ve got more young men running around in a bluster than you know what to do with. Do you want your door broken down in the heart of winter? Answer your _Palahnelan_ , Hahren, or we’ll get no rest in the quarter!”

“He’s no challenger!” Masao’s muffled voice shouted through the door. “I’ve led you people for over ten years, and your thanks is to kick a man when he’s down!”

“For pity’s sake, Jerrin!” Omanan shouted back, standing abreast with Jylan now and giving a mournful frown at the closed door. “How long have you been stealing coin from us? How much longer were you going to make excuses for Eli? Come now, let the child go back to his mother. Do you really think his uncles will let you keep him? What are you going to do, chain him up so neither of you ever leaves that house again?”

“He’s staying here!”

“Twenty years ago, Jerrin Masao, you could have convinced me that you could take three elves in a fist-fight,” Omanan grumbled darkly, tapping his cane on the snow. “These are Keffra’s boys and the one beside me also has Simran’s steel in his spine. Open that damned door, you old fool, before you embarrass yourself in front of Mother Sarah.”

There was no answer from the house. Omanan tapped his cane again and tisked at the door.

“Where is your dignity!” He demanded in his thick accent. “Let Eli’s boy go, or the alienage will never be able to move past this. _Jerrin!_ ”

Words muffled behind the door. Jylan said nothing but regarded Omanan briefly. The old man was likewise checking to see if either of them had made out the reply. He shook his head, so Omanan raised his voice again.

“Speak up, Hahren, no one can hear you with you hiding behind that door!”

“I said _he’s_ the challenger! Let _him_ speak!” This was tedious and unnecessary, and gave the impression that Masao was stalling for some reason. Very well, let him stall. It would be either Mother Sarah or Samar’s shipmates who ended this altercation, not whatever Jylan had to say.

The crowd had increased in number. It was not the entire alienage by a large margin, but it was certainly enough to represent more elves than Jylan could name or recognize.

“Charity and forgiveness are the cornerstones of every community, Hahren Masao,” he said, approaching the door so he was not required to shout. “If the silver has been taken due to want, then release my nephew and your actions today will be forgiven. If the community you have served for ten years will forgive you, then they may find the charity in their hearts to support you. But you must let Sanjay go back to his mother. We cannot proceed if a child is in distress.”

Silence was once again their answer, but Omanan’s emotional stake in these matters revealed itself with a softer, more impassioned plea from behind him.

“Jerrin…!” The old man uttered, and then it was not Trade or Rivaini which he used, but El’vhen. “ _Ma Hahren, Jerrin!_ ” My elder. “ _Ma falon,”_ My friend. _“Ma isa’var’lin, Jerrin._ ” My brother- no, cousin. “Open that door, Hahren, this is enough now.”

Masao didn’t answer them, but the clatter of the lock or bar moving did. There was another extended pause and Jylan was becoming quite cold standing on the ice and snow. When the door opened it was difficult to see anything but the glow of firelight beyond the threshold, but the Hahren slowly emerged.

He was proud but shaken, walking with a staggering gait with his own cane down on the hard ice packed around his house. He still had the mourning ashes on his face, and he looked thinner and weaker now than at the opening of winter. When he looked at Jylan it was clear he hated him very much, a wasted effort Jylan saw no reason to correct.

There was a commotion not far from them as Samar and a group of half-a-dozen young elven sailors were pushing through the thin crowd. Samar had murder cut across his face and both his long duelling daggers drawn. The elves around him did not seem like the same spirited, laughing group who had worked the ship from Amaranthine to Gwaren. There was an infectious anger in them as they jostled and shoved each other angrily, attempting to keep themselves worked up. They came forward together but stopped as a group at some invisible line Samar crossed without hesitating.

“Where is he?” Jylan’s eldest brother demanded with a snarl. The Hahren almost ducked back inside his house.

“ _No-_ ”

“Jeevan!”

Jylan looked and saw his namesake dashing for the open door, and a quick glance at Neria showed her shocked and holding the coat the boy had wrestled out of to escape her. His sprint for the house made the rest of them stop and stare, right up until Masao pulled his arm back whacked the head of his cane up across Jeevan’s face. The child dropped with a mist of blood on the ice.

“No _mage_ will set _foot_ in my-”

“Dirthamen-”

“ _Kill him!_ ”

Neither Dirth or Samar had a chance to do anything before Hahren Masao burst into bright, screaming white flames. Jylan stopped with the word _‘maul’_ in his mouth and watched the split-second transformation of frantic magic erupt into a mania of devouring fire. He was close enough to feel the heat, to smell the sudden rush of burnt hair and skin, and the primal magic made Samar stagger and slip back on the ice with a horrified yell.

Masao did not die. He screamed. And he moved. He staggered and he flailed his arms, wreathed in flames that cooled to an infernal crimson and pulled off his entire body like steam from quenched steel. He screamed, and he burned, and he flailed, and he burned.

Jylan doubted anyone else heard it, but he heard it: a strange whump noise which cut the air with a sharp hiss. It cut off the screaming because a thick black arrow plunged deep into the burning man’s chest, followed in quick succession by two more shafts. He staggered, slipped, and dropped dead to the ice, but he continued to burn because the fire was from the Fade and magic followed no rules but its own.

He turned and the crowd was screaming. He saw Zevran lower the short bow he’d used to kill the Hahren, but there was nothing grim or smug or satisfied about the assassin. The crowd was in a panic. There were shrieks and yells, elves running into each other and shoving one another into the snow, scratching at the ice to get back on their feet and run away. The magic had killed the Hahren and now it would come for the rest of them unless they hid with their terror or outright fled to get away from it. The arrows did not matter, the magic did; the wild mage setting their homes on fire did.

Jylan looked at Neria, she was on her knees with both hands clapped over her mouth in horror. It was not her magic. He had not expected it to be hers anyways.

 _“Sanjay!_ ” Jeevan was on his feet and staggered hard, but reached the door to the house.

No. Let Samar find Sanjay. Jylan walked past the dead, burning Hahren laid out on the ice, and grabbed his nephew by the arm.

“Come.”

“Sanja-!” The boy tried to fight his way into the house but Jylan resisted him, used both hands now, and hauled him back.

“No, you must come with me.” If he did not come, then the guards would kill him.

“ _Sanjay!”_ If he had to pick him up, then Jylan would pick him up. Jeevan was eleven years old but Jylan would lift him if it became absolutely necessary. He could not stay here. Jeevan had to get out of the alienage and presumably out of Gwaren. There were no Circles to send him to and with the city harbour frozen there would be no passage to Cumberland. If Jeevan could not be hidden and spirited out of the city after an event like this, then the city guards would kill him.

He had conjured deadly magic against the only person in the alienage with the authority to speak on his behalf. If the city guards found him, then they would kill him.

The boy was fighting him too hard, Jylan had to stop, twist and struggle with him until Jeevan was facing him, and held fast to his shirt with both hands while kneeling to speak with him. Dirth whined at them but did not stray further from Jylan than a few tense feet, looking this way and that as the alienage square emptied and windows and doors were shuttered up tight.

“If we do not get you out of the city, you will die.” This was not the appropriate way to explain such things to a child but they did not have time for debate or questions. His words shocked his nephew, but he stopped fighting. “There are no Templars to take you to a Circle that does not exist. The guards will come and they will kill you, Jeevan. You are a mage, and you have used your powers to attack someone. The reasons do not matter. You are a mage, and they will kill you unless you come with me.”

“What about Sanjay?” The boy gasped, and shocked tears began to crest in his eyes and spill down his cheeks.

“When you are safe, I will write and we will ask. But you and I must leave. We must leave now.” He stood and took his nephew by the arm again, but not as harshly as before. Jeevan did not resist as they both hurried down the alley to the house.

“ _Mamae-_ ” his nephew choked.

“ _No!_ No- it wasn’t him!” Ariyah’s screams followed him and caught Jylan’s other arm, forcing him to stop and turn to face her. “Jeevan-! It wasn’t him, _it wasn’t- it **was not** \- it-_” They did not have time for this, he shook Ariyah’s grasp off and took Jeevan with him.

“Fill this with food from the larder,” was what he told the boy when they entered the house. He handed him a large canvas sack from the kitchen. “Dirthamen, guard the house.”

“What do I take?”

“Whatever you can carry.” And Jylan went immediately upstairs.

He did not have the capacity to panic, but he knew to move swiftly. A simple change of clothes went into the canvas bag he had brought with him from Amaranthine. He put on his black robe over what he was wearing and his cloak back on over that in turn.

The enchantment tools were valuable, but heavy. He left them.

There was nothing from his amaranthine tools he could justify taking; cutting boards, mortar, mixing bowls, glass vials, distiller, and so on. He left them as well.

His hand-tools, all seventeen pieces, fit into their folded leather case and that went into his satchel from Neria. He opened the Cherrywood lock box and withdrew all of the papers and letters from inside, adding those to the satchel. He took two gold coins, twenty silver, and twenty copper. One gold coin went into each of his boots, the rest of the coin went into the satchel. He made sure he had Velanna’s knife and had strapped on the two leather bracers to his arms, under the sleeves of his robe.

He went back downstairs and found Ariyah, Sanjay, Samar and the children all in the house, Dirth still growling at the door keeping anyone else he didn’t recognize as family from coming too close. Samar was sheet white and holding the bag Jylan had given to their nephew, and the boy was clutched tightly to his mother where she was sobbing and rocking him in terror. It took Jylan a moment to recognize that Sanjay was crushed next to his brother in her embrace, also crying.

 _“Not again, not again, not again…_ ” Ariyah was sobbing over her sons.

“Samar, fill the bag with food from the larder.” He repeated his instruction to his elder brother and Samar gave a start.

“Why?”

“Unless you would permit the guards to kill Jeevan, we will need food.”

“ _We?_ ”

“Samar, fill the bag with food from the larder,” he repeated again. This time, Samar slowly moved to do as he was told. “Raveena, come here.”

She was shaken and frightened, but Jylan could not sooth her now as he knelt. He called her again and this time his niece walked to him with a whimper and hurried into a tight hug from him. He kept the box wedged between them and brushed his hand over her braided hair, then pushed her away.

“This box belongs to you now,” he stated. “You are your mother’s eldest daughter. You must touch this key to the bear, the book, and the shield to open it, do you understand?”

“The bear, the book, and the shield,” she hiccupped. Jylan reached up and took the cord around his neck up, pulling free the copper key and placing it over her head. She opened the lock box and it revealed the remaining six gold coins and the nigh-seventy silver still inside, plus more copper pieces than he could remember at present.

“Maker’s Mercy, _what’s going on!?”_ Rian burst into the house, his voice shrill with panic. Zevran was with him and backed up warily when he saw Dirth’s teeth flash at him. Jylan called his dog down and Dirth retreated, letting Zevran enter their home and then resume guarding the door. “The Hahren’s dead!? A blood mage? _Jeevan,_ what in _Andraste’s Name-!?”_

“My friend, the boy cannot stay here,” Zevran cut in. “Make your goodbyes to him and I will take him far away from the guards. They’ll never pursue us beyond the city walls, and if I take him with me back to Amaranthine it will be easy to get him on a ship to Cumberland.” Where the College of Enchanters would take him in.

“I am going with him,” Jylan stated. He would go to Cumberland. This statement caused a sudden uproar from all three of his siblings.

“You can’t!” Ariyah shrieked, still clutching her boys.

“Jeevan you’re _Palahnelan!”_

“You’re the Hahren now!” Rian rounded off, “You can’t just _leave-_ ”

“Do you have any idea what it was like to be dragged away by the Templars?” Jylan did not understand what he had asked until the words were already spoken. He did not have the time to apologize for his wildly inappropriate statement. “My memories of the event are not clear, but the effect the separation had on me was profound. There is no Circle, there are no teachers, or cohorts, or classes, or safety for Jeevan, only the violence of this moment and the isolation which may come of it if he cannot reach the college. If he does not escape now then he will die an apostate’s death. If he is to survive the journey north to Cumberland, then I will go with him.”

“Jeevan-” Rian’s tears and pleading could not sway him.

“Rian, give me your hand.”

“Why?”

“We do not have time to argue, give me your hand.”

His brother offered one hand to him and Jylan reached into the open lock box. He withdrew three gold coins.

“This is yours.” He made his statement and placed the first coin in his brother’s palm. Rian made a breathless noise of shock. “This is Saya’s.” The second coin. “It is hers to squander or spend or save or do whatever else she wills with it, it is hers, and you will deliver it to her. And this-” the third coin, “-is Jenna’s dowry. If she does not marry then it will be hers to spend how she wills, the same as Saya.”

“Jeevan- Maker, _how-?_ ” He turned away from his brother who was sobbing from shock, and went to Samar.

“Don’t you _dare._ ”

“Take it.” The fourth coin.

“ _No._ ”

Jylan took the filled sack from him and left the gold on the table. He did not have time to argue with Samar.

“I cannot travel with so much gold or silver or we will be beset upon by highwaymen or swindlers within a week.” He did not know if his words were true or not as he bade Ariyah stand and opened a hand to Zevran, who quickly took Jeevan by the hand and led him to his siblings. Kisses and frightened hugs for Raveena, and Tahir, and Anu, and Sanjay.

“Jeevan…” Ariyah was still sobbing when Jylan pushed the fifth coin into her hand.

“To spend on what and how you will,” he explained. “The silver and copper in the box will supply the family until it runs out. My pay of eight silver a month from Amaranthine will continue until Bloomingtide. You will hear from me before then provided I am able to write.” The sixth, and final, coin he held up to her. “For Raveena and Anu’s dowries.”

She fell with her face against his shoulder and he hugged her. It was short-lived, they needed to go.

“You are free, sister.” He said and kissed the crown of her head. Then he said goodbye.

Samar caught him in a fast hug when he freed himself from Ariyah. The embrace was warm and it was good and it was unfortunate that it would be the last one.

“If you are committed to him, then marry him.” Samar kissed his cheek roughly after Jylan spoke, and they moved apart.

“Get him to Cumberland and then _come home_ ,” his brother murmured against his head. “I’ll sail there myself if I have to and pick you up.”

“Goodbye, Samar.”

“Maker Watch Over You, Jeevan.”

“ _Please don’t go-_ ” Rian hugged him too tightly and it began to hurt. “ _Please- don’t do this again-_ ”

“If I am able to, then I will return. If we survive, I will send word immediately.”

“ _Not again-”_ His brother pleaded. _“Please don’t do this again, Jeevan, **don’t** -_”

“I am sorry, Rian.” But he did not regret this choice. He was not capable of such reflection, and furthermore knew it was the correct course of action. He had told Neria that if Jeevan needed him, Jylan would provide for him. He was the only one of their siblings who had been taken away before. He was the only one who knew anything about the mages, the chantry, or the Templars. If he could give any assistance at all in Jeevan’s integration into the college then he would do so. It was something only he could do.

“Quickly now,” Zevran ushered them out. The goodbyes were taking too long, Jeevan did not have time to kiss everyone so many times. They needed to be gone from this place before the guards came. Someone, most certainly, had alerted them by now. “We will escape by the hole in the alienage wall across the square.”

“Jeevan will need clothes,” Jylan stated. They would have to go swiftly to Neria’s house.

“Already taken care of,” Zevran answered. Jylan took his nephew’s hand and stepped out into the snow. He intended to look back and ask Zevran what he meant, but Neria was standing in the snow waiting for them.

“Jeevan, put this on,” she said. She was holding open his nephew’s wool coat and he quickly, with quiet sobs kicking up his throat, put his arms through and bundled it up. She wrapped his scarf around his neck and over his head, then swung a small cape around his shoulders with a hood that hid his hair. She gave him a rucksack he shouldered awkwardly, still sniffling hard as Zevran gave parting words to the rest of the family now crowding the doorway.

It was starting to snow.

“You are dressed for travelling,” Jylan noted, looking at the midwife as she finished bundling his nephew for the perilous cold ahead.

She wore thick grey wool trousers tucked into those pleated Dalish boots of hers, her toes and heels wrapped with linen rather than bare in the snow. Her tunic seemed like it was hiding more layers, and there was a leather girdle around her waist holding several pouches, a waterskin and satchel crossing her chest with their belts. A weapon of some kind was wrapped in canvas across her back, outside a patchwork cloak of many green Dalish fabrics, turned inside out to hide the distinct style while she was in the city. He assumed the hidden weapon was a staff, as she was a mage. Her throat and chest were bundled by a thick grey scarf.

“You didn’t think you could get away from me that easily, did you?” She asked with a tight smile. “You three all alone out in the woods? Won’t make it very far without a forest witch, will you?” She was coming with them. She could not have known before now that Jylan was going. She had made the decision exclusively to protect his nephew.

She was coming with them.

“Thank you, Neria.”

“ _Quickly_ now,” Zevran ushered them away from the door. Jylan looked back briefly and saw his brothers and sisters standing their, Ariyah’s children in great distress as their eldest brother was taken away from them. Dirth paused in the snow to look back and whine at them, but then without needing to be called he refocused his attention on Jylan and caught up with them.

They did not enter the main square with the grand tree, but cut through the alleys and side-ways between crowded tenement buildings and lopsided houses. They went this long and weaving way until they wound up on the opposite side of the alienage from where they’d begun. They could hear, because it was very loud, the sound of voices shouting and making a loud disturbance from the _Vhenadahl._ Guards.

There was a chicken coop hedged with metal wire, a stack of crates for them to climb up onto its roof. From there, a familiar plank now frosted with ice for them to scramble up one at a time. To a supporting buttress for the alienage wall, and then tightly between the iron rods that were exposed where a section of the wall had crumbled away during the Blight.

They jumped one after the other, Zevran, then Neria, then Jeevan, then Dirth, then Jylan, into the alley outside the alienage and behind the small stone walls and lots of the harbour district. They had bypassed the guards for now, but the calm would not last long. They had escaped the alienage.

“Stay close, and stay quiet.” Zevran muttered to them. “Keep your heads _down_.”

Now they just had to get out of Gwaren.

 


	45. Five Miles

 

It was good that Jylan did not feel anxiety. If he had, then it was doubtful they would have escaped Gwaren as easily as they did.

Zevran had been prepared to leave Gwaren tomorrow morning, not now in the middle of the day. Although they could have abandoned his prepared belongings, the assassin was adamant that their proximity to his inn and the value of what was inside offset the risks. The guards would not expect however many elves and an apostate child to flee towards the frozen shipyard, and as they were not Templars, they need only be avoided until their party was beyond the city walls.

Neria and Jeevan agreed only because they did not have the means to argue with the assassin; Jeevan was too young and frightened, and Neria too anxious and laid low by her own sense of terror. Jylan found the latter of interest because Neria herself should not have been in great danger, even if she feared the alienage’s frightened population had revealed her magic to the guards. She was not the apostate who had nearly killed the alienage leader and if pressed she could easily separate from and rejoin Jylan and the guilty child, but she was unable to calm herself regardless.

“Wait here and stay quiet, all of you.” Zevran ordered them to remain in the alley beside the inn as he ducked quickly inside to fetch his belongings. Jeevan would not release Jylan’s hand and he did not object to the child’s tight hold on his arm. The three of them sat behind a stack of large crates, wet from the snow and burdened with the sack of food, two rolled blankets, Jylan and Jeevan’s rucksacks with their possessions. Dirthamen was quiet and crouched in the snow near to them, ears up and nose wrinkled in the cold, but the hound was not growling and had not been commanded to do more than simply follow them. Neria was against the wall of the building rather than beside Jylan directly, and once he settled his arm around Jeevan’s crying shoulders he was able to direct his attention to her.

“Neria?” She was very pale, and her eyes open very wide. She was staring at the other side of the alley with her lips peeled back and shaking, sharp breaths wheezing up her throat. She was clutching her own rucksack tightly with both hands, but when her breath caught with a tight, frightened hiccup she clapped one gloved palm over it. “We will leave the city in short order, Neria, our situation is immediate but not dire.” His voice drew her gaze to him, and he recognized that she was both very frightened and very upset by what was happening.

Her emotional response was valid, but seemed excessive. Jeevan was crying quietly against his shoulder and Jylan saw no reason to dissuade the boy as he was suffering from the immediate and violent separation from his family. But Neria was not leaving her family, and she was in a far more capable position to defend herself should the guards happen upon them. He understood that she should be upset, and that she should be in a state of anxiety. Terror, however, did not seem appropriate.

Either Jylan was missing critical information to explain her reaction, or he did not fully understand the depths of their situation and _he_ was the one exhibiting highly inappropriate behaviour. As he could not imitate a terror response or bust into tears on command, he extended a hand out to her instead.

“Come to your apprentice,” he said.

He did not expect the response she gave him. Rather than speak or dismiss him or rally herself, Neria spilled tears and then scrambled through the snow to them. She all but fell onto Jylan and pushed herself under his arm, hugging tight around his back and chest and dropping her face to him much as Jeevan was. She gave a broken, muffled sob into the robe he’d pulled on for warmth over his normal clothes, and hugged him tighter still.

Dirth whined softly and Jylan hushed the hound. As they were all sitting in the snow, he used one arm to encourage Jeevan to move from his side to rest between his legs, close enough for Neria to embrace the boy and help warm him. It was much easier for Jylan to hold both of them and to place their sacks so they would be more easily picked up when Zevran returned. He adjusted his nephew’s scarf to ensure the boy’s ears were covered as well as could be, and then he pulled on Neria’s cloak until her curled legs were covered as well, conserving heat until they were ready to move again.

He stroked his nephew’s hair with one hand and then pulled Neria’s from the boy’s back to take over the comforting gesture. If she felt useful to the task of calming the child, then perhaps she would calm herself down. He offered assistance by rubbing her own shoulder and arm as well. Dirthamen came forward and crawled to lay down on what little space was afforded between Jeevan and Neria, and both of them began to pet the hound affectionately with Jylan wholly immobile under so much weight.

While his lack of fear was doubtless a curiosity in their situation, it also presented him as a figure of strength. Therefore, it was good that he was not subjected to their anxiety or fear. This was not a situation he could offer assistance to by partaking of the same emotions, but by standing apart. As a Tranquil, he was very good at being apart.

“No one came this way? Good,” Zevran was also experiencing a sense of heightened anxiety, but given both his profession and past experiences, he was not debilitated by it. His anxiety gave him urgency, and urgency felt appropriate as he made them all untangle and stand up when he returned. “To begin, until the danger is passed I cannot travel with two people sharing the exact same name. Ashera, may I use your Chantry name just to keep things simple?”

“Yes.”

“Good, then the matter is as simple as can be.” Zevran did not look much different for his time inside, save that there were now more belts and satchels about his person, the most obvious change was what looked like a set of small, modified saddlebags now worn under his cloak and across his shoulders: perhaps the easiest way to wear them without being over burdened. “Keep your nephew by your side at all times, there is no denying the resemblance between you. Midwife, give me your staff until we are beyond the walls.”

“I don’t have a staff,” Neria answered, her voice faint.

“Then what is that?” Zevran gestured to the canvas-wrapped length across her back. Neria pulled it off and undid the first tie on the rough fabric, revealing the head and curve of an unstrung bow. Zevran lit up with a smile. “Excellent- _excellent_ , then this is even better than I had hoped. You are going to walk right out of the city gates with these two and an ass, because you have been hired to lead them to South Reach. If they ask on what business, Jylan, you will present your letter from Garavel using your chantry name and tell them you have been refused a position in the Teyrna’s fortress. Say that you intend to try your luck with the Arl of South Reach, whose servants you already worked with during the war.”

“Is that in fact what we are going to do?” Jylan asked, as it seemed a reasonable suggestion although not one which would satisfy Jeevan’s educational needs as a young mage.

“We will make that decision once we are _safe.”_ Zevran answered. “Get beyond the gates and travel to the five-mile marker down the road towards the imperial highway, then stay there and wait for me.”

“What you going to do?” Neria asked, holding Jeevan’s shoulders where the boy was frightened and standing in the snow. Zevran smiled.

“The guards know there is an elf with a mabari somewhere in Gwaren, yes?” He asked with a sly tone. “Perhaps the alienage has kept quiet over who owns him, or where his owner is, but one elf is much like any other elf to human eyes, no? Dirthamen and I will be seen and we will be noticed, and then we shall vanish and meet you at the five-mile marker by no later than tomorrow morning. If there is an inn or travel lodge reasonably close to the marker then judge for yourselves if you would prefer that over camping, but be cautious. My dear, I trust you know how to make a winter camp?”

Neria straightened up a little, as if insulted.

“I was with the Dalish for _ten years_ ,” she grumbled.

“Is that a yes?”

“ _Yes_ it’s a yes,” she said. “But the alienage knows I’m Dalish-trained too, how far will the guards chase us? Through the snow?”

“They are not templars,” Zevran shook his head. “Once they are satisfied that you are beyond the city, it will fall from their attention soon enough. The Hahren was burned, yes, but he died from black arrows. Speaking of which, do you have any of your own for that bow?” Neria withered.

“No, I had maybe ten after my last hunt before the snow but in the rush I could only find the quiver. I can make more-” The assassin was already waving a hand at her.

“Time is of the essence and protection is more important. We will buy the ass and the arrows as you cannot take mine, they are far too distinct.” Black shaft and black feathers which had killed the alienage leader. Their story, as truthful as it may be, would not hold up if an elf carrying a bow was seen with the same arrows.

They did not linger in the alley after that. Jylan and Neria were instructed to walk apart from Zevran and Jeevan, who also had Dirthamen with them. They crossed paths as planned in the market where Neria bought a tightly wrapped bundle of arrows and Zevran purchased a donkey, saddling his bags and bedroll to it before making Jeevan take the rope leading the animal. They did not regroup, Jylan simply waited for Zevran to wander around the market with Jeevan, then crossed paths with them and took his nephew and the animal without a word. Zevran kept Dirth and remained in the market, Jylan led the donkey to the street where Neria was fidgeting nervously and checked on them.

Jeevan sat on the donkey’s back as the beast was loaded up with the rest of what they chose not to carry. They were not taking much with them, but Zevran’s pack included a set of camp-sized cooking pots and tent spikes and canvas, and the animal didn’t notice the weight of that or the bedrolls as it plodded on behind him. Jylan carried his clothes and his satchel of tools with the letters. Neria carried her own gear and they left for the city’s main gate.

There was foot traffic. Trappers and traders, mostly, but the guards were stopping nearly everyone and Jylan watched them pull the canvass off a wagon close ahead of them and prod the hay looking for anyone who was hiding. Zevran had said they could walk right out of the city, but they matched the description the alienage must have given: a tranquil and a child and a midwife.

It was good that he could not panic, because Neria turned and touched him trying to make him stop and she whispered to him, terrified, that they were going to get caught. Her nerves would give them away for certain.

He stopped, and because she was very close to him it was a simple matter for him to reach and touch her face. This startled and distracted her. She was very afraid but he was not. He understood the danger but it was not enough to dissuade him. They could not stay in Gwaren.

“You are nervous because you do not like me,” he told her. “But I am paying you for your protection, and you do not like carrying your bow past guardsman because you are an elf. I am rude to you, and fussy, and you do not want to go to South Reach in such poor weather, but again: I am paying you and you pity my nephew who also does not like me. You want to make sure the boy is safe, because if we leave alone then I will certainly make a decision that will get him and I both killed. You are scared because there is a mad apostate in the alienage, but I have made it hard for us to leave earlier. Dote on the child, Neria, he needs you.”

She took his hand off her face, but paused for a long moment just to look at him and squeeze his fingers. Then she took the donkey’s rope from him and started walking again, looking back with concerned words for Jeevan as he rubbed his runny nose on his sleeve. She all but left Jylan behind in the wet lane but he caught up to them in the crowd to hear her dismissively telling the guard that if left on their own her employer would send the donkey tumbling down a frozen ravine. She looked bashful and annoyed when she saw him and made a point of looking away. Her bow had been unwrapped and was being looked over by one of the other guards, who handed it back to her with a dismissive shrug. Elves could not carry weapons in Gwaren, but one could not leave a city without some sort of protection: common sense and common law cancelled each other out.

The guards demanded to know his business in South Reach. He kept his hood up, and the brand covered.

“To seek employment from the Arl of South Reach.” He turned over his letter from Garavel. “I served with his people during last winter’s war with Redcliffe.”

“Go back to Amaranthine if it’s an Arl’s help you want,” the guard jeered, pausing with the softer of the two formal letters which did not involve Garavel demanding a duel against anyone who doubted Jylan’s skills as an apothecary. “Knife Ears all stick together, but maybe Bryland’ll have a soft spot.”

“That is what the Seneschal’s aid told me.”

“Off with you, elf. Don’t get stuck in any _ice_.”

They walked, for better or worse, right out through the city gates.

The first half-mile of land outside the great grey walls was all the hard-packed earth and ice of trader’s huts, stables, empty livestock pens, and cleared yards for deliveries of lumber and ores from the mountains. They did not reach the trees and woodland drops and rises of the wagon road for a quarter hour, and the way was a dizzying spiral and twist of many roads breaking away like the arms of a river delta. Neria knew which road would lead to the Imperial Highway, and that was the only road liable to have milestones on it.

When they passed the first such stone stamped with Gwaren’s dragon and a cap of white snow, Neria turned sharply on her heel and came back at him. Her face was distressed and her movements were quick, she grabbed his head inside his hood and pulled down, kissing his cheek and then quickly doing the same on the other. She stopped and did not let go of him, holding on so they were looking directly at one another.

Her emotions were running very high so he did not question her, which meant he had nothing to say. He waited for her to kiss him on the mouth, but she did not. She had done so once before, many weeks ago when very pleased and relieved by something he had done, but she refrained from doing so now. He let his neck bend by a negligible amount but this did not encourage her, or perhaps it escaped her notice. Very well, she would not kiss him. He considered kissing her instead, but that would only raise an uncomfortable topic that she did not deserve to endure on top of everything else.

“Thank you, but we should continue on before we become too cold.”

Neria dropped her touch but then wrapped her arms around his chest, under his arms. She hugged very close and tight, and it was a pleasant sensation overall.

“Are we going to be okay?” She asked, and he settled his arms around her briefly, though not with the same intensity she had displayed. 

“If we arrive at the rendezvous point in a timely manner and remain patient, then I believe so, yes.”

“Thank you…” She withdrew from the hug and wiped her eyes, then continued on to lead them.

The road was not good and it was not easily travelled. The snow had been beaten down by hooves and sleds and boots to form a tough ice pack layered over again with fluffy snow. Their boots were good for the cold but Jylan’s legs became cold despite the exercise of high steps and kicking stride. His robe was not good for such maneuvers either, and slowed him considerably. Gwaren was a reclusive city which lived from its harbour, not its mountain roads, and it would be many, many miles and several days slow going to reach the Imperial Highway’s elevated stone structure.

Jylan was both very tired and very hungry by the time they reached the fifth mile marker in the snow. The donkey did not complain because it knew nothing but a life of burden and walking, Jylan did not complain because he was tranquil and knew that voicing his discomfort would serve absolutely no purpose in rectifying it. Jeevan cried and complained he was cold, Neria made the boy walk to warm up and then seated him back on the donkey when he grew exhausted from his weeping and the hard travel. She marched ahead of the donkey and complained bitterly about everything from the snow to the road to the quiet trees looming over them.

The fifth mile brought them, as Zevran had suggested, to a way station. It was a hardy log structure with two smoking chimneys and a number of sleighs and carts resting in the gentle snowfall. The image was like one would expect on a nobleman’s wall, or stitched into a tapestry, but the reality was much harsher, colder, and wetter. Zevran had asked them to use caution when it came to the decision to use such an inn or to camp out in the snow, but was it more cautious to keep up the simple story of seeking lawful employment in South Reach and stay in the inn, or risk discovery when they left an obvious path behind them cutting through the snow down from the road?

“Come on,” Neria took them down between the trees, following the way to the woodcutter’s shed who supplied the inn. They carried on down further still, avoiding making fresh tracks by following a well-used path between the trees. They went as far as the donkey seemed able to navigate, and settled around a low, sweeping bend of stone and tree: a shallow outcrop of stone where the snow was very thin and the wind was reduced by the trees.

The donkey was unburdened, and Neria asked him if he thought Zevran could read Dalish trail signs. He had no honest knowledge of Master Arainai’s dealings with woodcraft or the Dalish. She departed anyways, presumably to leave such a sign of bent branches and twisted bark for him to follow. This left Jylan to assume responsibility for the tent, something he had limited experience with but had still seen before.

It was as he suspected: a Grey Warden design which meant it was easily moved and carried, though it wisely lacked the order’s insignia. He set up the simple shelter and cleared a space to build a fire, instructing Jeevan to gather large stones and use the small trowel from the assassin’s gear to dig a pit for the ashes to gather. The work kept the boy busy, and it kept either of them from wandering dangerously off through the darkening forest to find wood. The donkey was hobbled beside the tent and fed with a blanket cast over its back, and the animal seemed content enough with its lot.

Neria returned with arms full of dead wood, all of which was wet or frozen. She placed a metal grate over the hole Jeevan dug after deepening it herself and showing him how it could not be too wide. She showed him the glyphs she traced for heat and light and cast the primal energy down into the pit, placing the wood on the grate to steam and dry out. They melted snow in a pot for drinking, and waited.

Jylan finally looked into the sack Samar had filled from the house’s larder. Unexpectedly, he found the ham haunch and bottles of wine he had purchased for tonight’s goodbye dinner for Zevran. The jar of elfroot poultice was also inside, along with two cabbages, several onions, a number of potatoes, a decent sized sack of salt, plus carrots, winter radish, lentils, and beans. For four people it would comfortably last them a week. Stretched thin, it would do for ten days.

When Neria began building a proper fire in the pit to save her energy after holding the spell for so long, they were able to begin cooking a modest meal of salted potatoes and ham chunks, washed down with the wine to spare the weight of the bottle. For warmth and presumably comfort, Jeevan settled next to Jylan and leaned on him for much of the time spent waiting, a blanket over his legs and his cloak still around his shoulders. Neria, between time spent tending the fire and foraging for more wood to bring back and dry for the flames, also seated herself beside him. With both of them leaning on him in this manner it was not easy to use his arms or to feed himself, but he was quite warm and considered his presence of use to them.

Finally, with the forest truly dark around them, Jeevan broke his silence.

“I’m sorry, uncle…” His nephew pushed his face down to Jylan’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut. “ _I’m sorry…”_

“It is an honestly acquired trait, Jeevan. I do not consider you willfully at fault for today’s events.” The boy began to cry in earnest now, indicating his words had offered no comfort.

“I’m _so sorry,”_ the boy wept, which was unfortunate as at this point he would do nothing more than cry himself to sleep. “He had _Sanjay_ and I- _I_ … It just _happened_ and I-”

“Jeevan…” Neria sat up where she had been leaning on Jylan’s shoulder, and shifted so she could lean down and brush her hand over his nephew’s hair.

“I suspect,” Jylan said, removing his arm from around Neria and picking up the abandoned half-eaten potato Jeevan had left on his leg, “that you were only responsible for the magic in the alienage because of the three of us, I was incapable of the same display.”

“ _What?”_ His nephew hiccupped and rubbed one eye with his hand, looking up at him.

“I was removed from Gwaren when my magic manifested in a primal display against the Darkspawn invading the city.” Jylan gave this reminder easily, though he suspected Jeevan already knew the story quite well. “I see little reason why, had I retained possession of my magic, I would not have repeated such an act today when you were struck by Masao. His behaviour towards Sanjay was inciting, but to cause you physical harm was an unworthy act of violence which obligated reprisal. If you had not acted first, then your uncle Samar or myself would have ultimately achieved the same results.”

“Uncle Sama would have set him on fire..?” Jeevan asked quietly, dropping the end of his uncle’s name on purpose, as he and his siblings often had for _‘Uncle Jee’_ and _‘Uncle Rin’_ and _‘Auntie Sa’_.

“No, Samar would have stabbed him,” Jylan clarified. “And as I said, I no longer retain my magical abilities. I had intended to command Dirthamen to bite and maul the Hahren and presumably to end matters either with a request for Neria to spare his life or Samar to simply cut his throat to prevent a slow death. You are a child who was defending his younger brother, his violence was morally unjustified.”

“Your family’s insane.” Neria made this quiet judgement and then brought her head back down to rest on Jylan’s shoulder. Jylan ate what his nephew refused to finish from their sparse dinner, and then settled his arm around the midwife again. “…Jylan?”

“Yes?” He looked down but could not see her face.

“No, that…” She murmured and settled a little more against him. “What Arainai said about calling you by your Chantry name. It’s Jylan, right?”

“Yes, Jylan Ansera,” he clarified. “Although I do not see any reason to retain the false surname. As it will doubtless make communication between us easier, it may be wise for you to adopt the use of the Chantry name as well.”

“Jylan…” She mumbled again. “Jylan. Jeevan. Jylan… Which one do you prefer?”

“I am more accustomed to the name Jylan, but am ultimately of no great opinion. I answer to both names equally which may cause confusion if Jeevan and I are to travel together with you.”

“Please pick one?” She asked him softly. “It’s _your_ name after all.”

“Then I will choose Jylan, for clarity’s sake.” She hummed to him softly, and then repeated the name to herself a few more times, her voice growing husky and soft. When he noted that she was growing heavier against him and he felt Jeevan move and settle with his head in Jylan’s lap, he spoke to them both.

“If you are both tired, it is well past dusk and I am capable of keeping watch for Master Arainai and Dirthamen. I would recommend you both retire to the tent in case the snowfall resumes.”

“It’s dark,” his nephew said, which was correct as it was well past dusk. Jylan had just said this.

“You’re warm…” Neria murmured, pulling on her cloak until it was fanned over her legs and one of his, her weight resting heavily on him. Perhaps at their next campsite he would acquire something to lean back on to facilitate this arrangement, as he was currently resolved to remain upright by his own strength alone.

“You will become both wet and cold if it begins to snow,” he offered this word of caution but did not push Neria off of him. It was easier to hold her by slipping his arm under her cloak and then around her back, rather than hold on around the outside of it. “I also cannot tend the fire in this position.”

“Make Jeevan do it,” she hummed back.

“Mm,” the boy perhaps made a sound of agreement, but he was asleep too soon for Jylan to establish the truth of this. Very well, tomorrow night he would not expend so much energy driving the tent pins into the frozen ground.

Tranquil did not become bored, which he understood made him an excellent candidate for keeping watch. He could not make note of the stars between the clouds and the forest, so did not have an accurate gauge of time, but he knew that the night passed calmly. He heard no footsteps in the snow and no shuffling or disturbed noises from the underbrush. Tranquil also did not require relief from minor pains, which meant he was able to accurately judge if his need to move and relieve the strain on his back was more valuable than Neria’s position of comfort curled up beside him. It was not, and he let her sleep.

However, what was more valuable than Neria’s comfort was the state of the fire. Therefore, after a period of roughly two hours watch, Jylan was required to move her from his shoulder so he could pile more dried wood into the pit, and place more wet wood on the grate. As Jeevan had not woken up for this change in arrangements, Jylan managed to lift the eleven year old boy as well as he was able to bring him to the tent. Despite the lack of fire, there were several blankets including the one Jeevan was already wrapped in, and the donkey was not as irritating as a goat and was brought inside for additional warmth for the child.

He returned to the fire to make a second attempt to convince Neria to retreat to the tent. He found her both awake and crying.

“You were supposed to be _Hahren_ …” She was wiping her eyes over and over again, gathering up exhausted tears. “You should go back- you can still fix things- be _Hahren_ , take over and _help_ and-”

“You are very tired, Neria, and you should sleep.”

“ _No._ ”

“I will insist on this point. You are more exhausted than I would expect and sleep will do you good.”

“I can’t sleep, he’s _waiting,”_ she choked, and Jylan required a few moments to consider her words before he understood them.

“Is there a demon waiting for you in the Fade?” he asked, and she looked at him with miserable, exhausted eyes. “I was unable to complete the dream ward before today. I apologize.”

“I brought the pieces of it.” She sniffled hard and then reached around for her pack, opening the top of it and shaking it a little, trying to find the pieces in the dark. The hoop of hazelwood and copper marigolds, the half-spun web of runes, the remaining rods of lyrium-etched metal. “I don’t know _why_. I didn’t know if you were leaving. I just- you worked so hard on it, if I could find someone to finish it-? And if not then it’s still beautiful and- and I don’t _know…_ ” She began to cry again, it was a miserable and exhausted sound.

“I do not have all of my tools, but the lyrium components were completed.” He explained this quietly to her as he touched the components. “If you will consent to rest again tonight then I will consider dividing my attention between crafting and keeping watch.”

“That’s not _fair_ to you,” she sobbed.

“You are exhausted to tears, Neria. It does not make sense for us both to remain awake, and if I am the one to keep watch then I can continue the ward as well. Permit me to work for two hours, and I will wake you for second watch so I may sleep.”

“I don’t want it to attack Jeevan-” she said, so tired and sleepless.

“Then you must go into the Fade and prevent them from crossing paths tonight. I cannot do so for you, Neria, I am tranquil.” He would finish the ward tonight and then she would sleep better. He opened his satchel and searched for his tools, for his pliers and the small hammer from his apothecary set.

He did not have a table or his metal plate for a proper work surface, but he had reason to endure these shortcomings. She did not retreat to the tent but rather curled up on the cold ground beside him, twisted in her cloak and a blanket with her head at his feet. She cried for several more minutes very softly, but then fell asleep again.

His twists and knots did not come out quite straight. Working in his lap was difficult and imprecise. This was not the quality of work she deserved but his focus was also interrupted repeatedly to look up and scan their dark surroundings for any signs of movement. Demons on this side of the veil were uncommon and they were not far enough from fertile lands for lingering Darkspawn from the south. Neria had warned that there were spirits and demons on the other side of the veil, but there was nothing he could do except finish the ward to keep them away.

He twisted the web of copper and he fixed it with gentle taps from the hammer to the hoop, drawing the excess wire through holes he had already drilled days before and wrapping the ends tightly under the petals of the affixed marigolds. The firelight was unsteady and his coils were not as even as they should have been. This was not his best work, it was not even passable work. He considered, quite seriously, pulling the entire ward apart to begin again, but the wire would not be able to tolerate such abuse and he had no more lyrium or tools to work it.

The ward was no longer a matter of nicety and obligation, it was an asset which would permit Neria to sleep deeply and afford Jeevan protection as they travelled. That it look beautiful was no longer a condition for completion, that it work properly was all that was required. Precise folds did not matter, and he was too tired to secure them anyways. His back ached and his fingers were numb from cold. His vision repeatedly blurred from his own fatigue. He worked for longer than two hours, and did not look up from his labour as often as he should have.

He finished it.

He roused Neria by jostling her shoulder and handed it to her. He did not believe he said anything to her and he did not hear anything she may have said to him. He laid down on the cold ground by the dying fire, closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Jylan woke up at dawn to the sound of a dog barking, his head cushioned on Neria’s lap and his body aching from the cold and uncomfortable night. Voices in the white dawn hushed the dog, and Dirthamen trotted merrily into their makeshift camp with his pink tongue lolling, white mist gushing from his large mouth as he snuffed around the burning fire pit, found Jylan’s stiff legs, and promptly dropped on his belly on the cold stony ground.

“I brought breakfast,” Zevran was smiling brightly and looked to be in good spirits. He gave them each a large pie from the inn up the hillside, filled with thick salted gravy and chunks of hot goat and pork with soft vegetables. Jeevan was roused from inside the tent and the assassin laughed jovially at finding the adults outside in the cold rather than under the shelter. The boy fell into his pie and Jylan considered exercising his arms just to see if it would help his body limber up, but disregarded the act as too cumbersome in his current state.

“Should we start moving?” Neria asked Zevran, but the assassin was sitting pleasantly by their fire, and took a large bite of his own pie.

“We should decide where we are moving to first,” he answered. “We have options, and problems.”

There had been no time to discuss any sort of plan before fleeing the alienage yesterday, now they had time.

“You say Jeevan is better suited to the Circle’s style of magical instruction,” Zevran summarized as they sat by their fire and spoke. “That, along with your own past experiences, Jylan, means sending him to Cumberland to join the College of Enchanters, who I understand have an open-door policy for all child mages as well as apostates.” Neria became immediately uncomfortable.

“I don’t… know if I want to join the College,” she admitted. “I was always afraid of the stories surrounding the Circles.”

“You feared the alienage turning on you for being an apostate,” Zevran told her. “It was sudden, but not wholly unexpected. Do you see yourself settling again in another city, or perhaps returning to the Dalish?” This time, she withered.

“I… I’ve burned that bridge…” she admitted in a hoarse voice. “I think… I think I could approach a clan to take Jeevan, but I don’t know why they’d ever accept _me_ back. If we go to the College then maybe we could all stay together?” Stay together.

She wanted to stay with them?

“Is that what you want?” Jylan asked, because it was important that this point receive clarification. Neria froze briefly and stared at him, then gave a rigid nod.

“Unless you don’t.”

“If you desire to see the three of us remain together, then I will advocate for whichever path will facilitate that outcome.” He did not know how this decision would go over when the rest of the family in Gwaren was informed of it, but that would depend largely on where they decided to settle. With the Dalish, or with the College.

“Do I get a say?” Jeevan asked with a particularly sharp tone, and Jylan regarded him briefly. “I mean- it’s _me_ we’re talking about.”

“What is your opinion?” Jylan asked him. The boy froze up much as his mentor had, and he looked down into the half-eaten pie in his lap. He remained silent.

“While he thinks,” Zevran said, a guarded look having crossed his face. He was looking into the fire, but then chose to look at Jylan. “Consider that if the goal is to remain safe _and_ together, what it would mean for you to return to the Circle mindset of the College, Jylan.”

“It does not require much consideration,” he stated. “I am both aware of the circumstances and can make accurate assumptions of what the transition would entail.”

“And you alright with that? Even if there are _Templars?_ ”

“I am incapable of being otherwise. It is not ideal, but it can be endured. If nothing else, I would remain visible to Neria and Jeevan in some capacity, although likely not available for conversation or socialization beyond my duties.”

“Wait-” Neria interrupted with a hand on his arm, and Jeevan was looking up again with a strong sense of anxiety. “Wait, _what_ are you talking about?”

“I am tranquil,” he told her, and his words caused a tightness around her eyes which was different from irritation or confusion. Although he had made the statement countless times before, it appeared she understood the different meaning behind it this time. “Tranquil were servants of the Chantry and Circles. I imagine it would logically stand for me to return to such duties if I presented myself to the College.”

“What kind of servants?” She asked him, but there was a hollow tone in her voice. “Tranquil don’t resist…” she whispered.

“I would be present within the College, but relegated to a Tranquil’s schedule of servitude and hard work.”

“What is a Tranquil’s work schedule?”

“Within the Circle we were on overlapping shifts,” he explained. “Generally after six hours of sleep we were roused and given time to groom, dress, and eat before commencing with our work or duties. A half hour portion of time was assigned five hours later for another meal, and then duties would resume for another six hours. A half hour portion was given for washing and dining before we were permitted to sleep.”

“Forever until you died,” Zevran gave an unnecessary conclusion to his explanation. However, he was not factually incorrect. “When he says servant, understand that your uncle means _slave._ I have no idea what the College’s views on the Tranquil are, but I _do_ know that the Arl of Amaranthine has kept a vice-like grip on the Formari Guildsmen to keep the Chantry from taking the tranquil as a group to Cumberland.”

“Property,” Neria echoed quietly, her hand still heavy on his arm. She was watching Zevran, not Jylan, and when her gaze fell it was to Dirthamen. “No autonomy.” Now she looked at Jylan. “We’d never see you, or if we did you wouldn’t be able to talk to us. Your family would never see or hear from you again.”

“Tranquil received no pay,” he stated, although he attempted to regulate the pace of his voice to reflect the serious nature of the topic. He was not successful. “Or time away from duties. Idle moments were plentiful depending on what one’s duties were, but by idle I do mean that one would simply stand in place and await instruction. We would be within physical proximity of one another within the College, and arguably safe, but I would most certainly exist in social isolation from you both.”

“No-”

“No!” Jeevan cried. “I don’t wanna go! I _won’t!_ They put that mark on his forehead and they’ll do it to me too!” This outburst required intervention.

“The Rite of Tranquility has been banned by the College, Jeevan. You would not be made Tranquil.”

“I don’t care- I don’t wanna _go_ -” his voice broke up and he began to hiccup and cry, and the only option left was for Jylan to gather the boy close to his side and let him sob into his shoulder again as he had for so long last night. Dirthamen stood with a keen whine and bumped his head against the boy, repeating the gesture until Jeevan reached out and then pulled away from Jylan. Jeevan gathered the war hound up in a hug before Dirth dropped hard over the child, giving affection and comfort through body contact. Once they were settled in this manner, Jylan looked to Neria, his hand rubbing his nephew’s back.

“The Dalish?” She looked weak and pale at the thought, but with thin lips and tired eyes, she nodded.

“I might not be able to stay,” she admitted softly, but as she spoke she grew distressed. “When I left Talanulea- I wasn’t in _trouble_ , I’m not an exile, but I’m not really _Dalish_ either and that- that’s almost as bad. I was told to go and find another Clan. Food, tools, blessings, a _Halla_ \- I was looked after but I just- I didn’t. I stayed in the Brecellian for a season and when I found a clan’s trail signs I just… went to Gwaren. I went to Zephyr’s Ridge first and when I realized it was gone I went to _Gwaren_.”

“Is it offensive to retreat to a human city rather than to a clan?” Jylan asked.

“ _Yes?_ ” She gasped at him, and he saw the tears beginning to well up in her eyes. “Of course it is! I was- I was only Second, but I was trained by the _Keeper_ and- and I _know_ the Dalish _might_ take a child, but they have no reason to take you and they would _never_ accept _me_. Talanulea didn’t even want my mother, just me, they made her live on the edge of camp and _walk_ and-” Her story began to overwhelm her, both with tears and emotion. She sucked in a broken breath and Jylan allowed his hand to try and find her face again but she did not accept the act of comfort from him, dropping her face with a sharp, angry outburst. “I _hate_ the Dalish-!”

She had stated previously that she and her mother had lived among the clan that had offered them solace, but clearly there had been crucial omissions made to this story.

As he was no longer burdened with his nephew, Jylan made a wordless offer of embrace to Neria, who accepted it as willingly now as she had yesterday. She wrapped one arm behind his neck and the other under his shoulders, and came so far as earnestly crawling into his lap, frustrated and frightened and more tired than he readily understood. She was warm but she was distressed, and he was sore but still strong enough to hold her, so he did so. He held her very close and intended to offer what comfort he was able to provide. He looked over her weeping shoulder at Zevran, who was watching them solemnly with his hands at his lips.

“South Reach,” Jylan suggested. Zevran dropped his hands.

“What is in South Reach?” He asked.

“The Arl’s court at Caer Blackwood, where I worked with his staff during Warden Guerrin’s recovery after the Siege of Redcliffe Castle.” It was the lie they had told yesterday, but it need not be a complete falsehood. “For a year or two, I might gain employment and lodging for a family. When suspicions rise over Jeevan or Neria’s talents, we will move on to Arl Mallory of West Hills or to a town in need of an apothecary. Then there are the holds of the Bannorn, the Teyrnir of Highever, and the Arling and City of Denerim.”

“For a family…” Zevran repeated the phrase back to him, but that was indeed how Jylan had said it. He and Neria were not married and it was impossible to suggest that they would become so, but family lodgings would be the term used when establishing a contract. “What you are suggesting is an apostate’s life, my friend.”

“When Jeevan is old enough to separate from us, he may choose the Dalish or the College at his own discretion without putting Neria or I at risk.” Jylan offered this necessary follow-through with Neria still curled up in his arms, though her crying had calmed and he expected that she was listening. “If during our time away we can establish a safe route back to Gwaren, we may sit and consider it, but I do not think Jeevan will be able to successfully return to the city before he is fully grown. It is an apostate’s life, but it also means he will not be abandoned or endure a forced separation from his caregivers.”

“…I can leatherwork.” Neria offered with a thick voice at his shoulder. “And hunt. I’m better at those than midwifery… Dalish crafts, I can earn a little from that..?”

“The Free Marches have many travellers,” Jylan continued, as there was no shortage of places a trio of elves with skills but no ties could go. “With careful planning, it would be possible to remain in a city where Samar’s company trades and take word to him and Rian of our wellbeing, as well as receive word back.” Or they could go to Rivain, or Antiva, or Nevarra. Not Orlais, as they were elven and life would be very difficult there. Tevinter would also be unseemly, although Neria and Jeevan were both mages. “We have many options.”

“But no home…” Neria’s voice was soft, muffled against his scarf. Jylan doubted Zevran even heard her.

“Plus one more,” Zevran said. He looked at Jylan with a fresher expression now, coming out of his solemn quiet. “And it is more viable than you may believe, though some adjustment would be necessary on both sides. Have you not considered sponsorship?”

“Is that not what I would seek from the Arl of South Reach?” Jylan asked, but Zevran shook his head and waved a hand at him.

“No, I mean _Magi_ sponsorship, the same as what Rowan has in Vigil’s Keep.” He meant… the permission which allowed Rowan to live openly as a mage beyond the walls of the College in Cumberland.

“Rowan is the sister of one Archmage and apprenticed to another,” Jylan explained, uncertain how Zevran had forgotten this.

“And nestled now in that most loving embrace of yours, my friend, you have the sister of _that other_ Archmage,” Neria went rigid in his arms. “Who is also the Patron of the Formari Guildsmen and is staunchly opposed to sending the tranquil off to Cumberland. If it is a choice between apostasy and reunion, then why not try Amaranthine?”

“After how-” Neria turned and twisted in Jylan’s embrace, which was not an easy task to accomplish, “-he treated Jeevan, you want him to _go back?_ ”

“I am excusing _nothing_ the Warden Commander said or did,” Zevran said in a stern voice. “But he is not as horrible a person as his worst moments may suggest. Neria, you are as certainly kin to him as I am born from Antiva, and that will give you more than just a mere foot in the door. Even if it comes to _nothing_ , if you should _hate him_ or he become cross and uncomfortable about you, you will have made _contact_ that he will not deny if you need him at some point later. You also have _me_ to vouch for you, and I am one of the few people Surana will listen to even when he is at his most stubborn. I am not saying _‘Live in Vigil’s Keep and stay there forever’_ , I am saying _‘Meet your brother, see what he has to say,’_ and see if he will give you the protection you will need to set up and _stay_ in a town or village or where have you within the Arling. For what it’s worth, you might even have a shot at speaking with a clan again if you approach the ones living in the Wending Wood. Or you say to hell with the elves and the humans and go live in Blackmarsh! Or wander the Howestand woodlands, or do whatever else pleases you! You do not _have_ to live as wandering apostates constantly looking over your shoulders. You have _another_ option.”

Zevran finished his argument with that, and Jylan was uncertain of how ready Neria’s temper was to catch and burn on everything around her. He could not see her face and did not know her mind well enough to judge her patience. What he did know was that if she was angry, then she was not angry with him. She would not hurt him, at least not by striking him, and she wanted to remain with him and Jeevan.

He touched her arm gently with his fingertips and brushed back on her sleeve, coaxing her attention back around to him. She twisted and looked at him with a sharp, guarded look on her face.

“It is safer than apostasy,” he explained. “And if we are able to linger for a time in Amaranthine, I may have the opportunity to speak with Connor when he returns to Ferelden.”

“Who?”

“Warden Guerrin,” a name she knew and understood his respect for. Her manner softened, if only a little.

“ _Another_ fine idea,” Zevran praised, rattling Neria’s chain a little more before Jylan could calm her down completely. “Connor will help you, and he has all the authority of both an Archmage _and_ a Grey Warden.” Neria did not like that suggestion in the slightest, and she swallowed hard and tight, staring straight through Jylan’s eyes.

“Do you trust the Wardens enough to go back?”

“I trust Connor, and a handful of others.” Velanna. And Warden Sephri. Warden Lavellan had not been unkind. “If we visit Vigil’s Keep you will be able to meet Midwife Valora, and I think you would like her very much.”

“And if _that Warden_ is there?” She asked sharply.

“Warden Athras?” He asked, intending to clarify, and the way Neria’s jaws locked was answer enough. “She may be avoided, and if not then she still holds no authority to command me any longer.”

“Do I?” She asked him and Jylan did not understand the question. “Do I have the authority to command you?” The question was wholly unexpected.

“I- do not believe so, no.” He answered, though he was unable to mask his confusion entirely. “In truth I have not given the matter much thought since we last spoke of it. I cannot think of a demand or desire you could make of me, bar those which would do me great harm or disservice, that I would refuse to fulfill save for matters of practicality. You could not order me to climb the trees around this camp, for example, but I would not refuse to carry your bag unless I was approaching a state of exhaustion greater than your own.”

She reached up and caressed his face with both hands, and even in Zevran’s presence Jylan once again anticipated that she would lean up and kiss him. However, as it had been yesterday, no such gesture was made. He was left watching as her lips only spoke to him instead.

“I won’t let anyone shackle you again,” she said solemnly, and he could appreciate the heartfelt vow when he looked from her lips to her eyes. “Not the College, not your guild, not the Wardens.”

“Then I will not permit anyone to disrespect you,” he echoed her, though he could not put the same passion into his words. “Not the Dalish, or the Chantry, or the Arl of Amaranthine himself.”

“He is not _that_ awful,” Zevran complained from across the fire.

“…Is she my aunt now?” Jeevan’s unwise words caused Neria to startle, and drew unwanted attention to the fact that Jylan’s hands had settled at her waist. He looked at his nephew and removed his touch from her, her hands withdrawing from his face. The boy was sitting there, red-eyed, with Dirthamen settled over his lap and dozing in the morning light. “Mamae kept saying you might marry after you became Hahren, uncle. You can’t be Hahren anymore if you don’t go back home, but- did you just marry her?”

“Marriage is a ritual exchange of vows performed within a community context,” Jylan explained in very technical terms, as he did not know what other phrasing to use as Neria leaned her face on his shoulder again. “So no, we are not married. Tranquil are not permitted to marry within the Chantry and even if it is only precedent, not law, she has done nothing to deserve such a detrimental match. When we settle within a town or alienage, she will have the rightful choice to pursue or encourage any courtship interests from more appropriate members of the community. I could never presume to-” Neria reached up and snatched his face.

It was a particular and confusing hold. She took him by the chin with one finger extended up over his lips, still parted from speech. He was not in fact impeded from continuing to speak, and could breathe just fine. She pulled on him and sat up and he looked at her. She took a breath and he waited, but she only let the breath go as a soft, whispering sigh. Her eyes travelled from his and down his face before a sadness touched her gaze. Her touch slid down until it was her thumb against his lips, and then that brushed away. She shook her head at him like she had said something unfortunate, and then looked back over her shoulder at Zevran.

“How long is the safest route to Amaranthine?” She asked. Zevran’s gaze was unreadable but his attention was wholly focused on the two of them. Neria stood and straightened her cloak, walking around Jylan before turning to look at Zevran again, waiting for her answer.

“The safest is the longest,” Zevran said with a quick breath, breaking himself from his silent trance and swinging his weight to stand up as Neria had. He grunted a little and stretched his legs, wiping away the crumbs from his breakfast and walking around the fire. At his belt were two leather cases, and he opened one of them to draw out the telltale vellum rolls of a fine quality map.

He unfurled this map by kneeling on the ground and spreading it gently, and Jeevan scrambled forward to see what Jylan had a clear gaze of. There was more than one map before them, but Zevran thumbed carefully through them to reveal a full picture of the Fereldan nation. It was very old, but very well kept.

“You will not be _absolutely safe_ until you are in the Arl’s company,” Zevran explained, “And for _that_ , it is most fortunate that you have me on hand, because he is _not_ at Vigil’s Keep- at least not anymore, and not if he is the man I have trusted and loved these many years.” Zevran’s gloved fingers found Vigil’s Keep in the north of the country, and then traced slowly and carefully along the snaking length of the Imperial Highway, tracking south. “He has been on the move, I would wager, for the last fortnight at least coming south and then tapering west.” Which is what Zevran’s hand did, passing Gwaren with a wide berth and then cutting south again when the highway reached the branch near the ruined, blighted lands of Lothering. “He should be making his way steadily towards the ruins of Ostagar, where I have intended all winter to meet him at the opening of the spring season.”

From his crouch, Zevran looked up at Neria who was behind Jylan. When he spoke his breath made soft white clouds around his mouth, and then he stood to speak seriously with her.

“He is going the _Arlath’vhen_ , the great meeting of the Clans.” Neria recoiled with a stiff groan.

“ _Why?_ ” She moaned.

“Because I asked him to,” Zevran said, “it important to me, a deeply personal matter which _he understands_. He will bring a small company of Grey Wardens with him and they will likely have an encampment on the outskirts of the Arlath’vhen meeting grounds. You need not attend the reunion itself, Neria, and I would not ask you to, but the fastest and safest way to meet the Arl is to come with me to Ostagar.”

“We will not encounter many major settlements along the way,” Jylan stated, looking at the map. “It will be difficult travel, but with no danger from guards or suspicious townsfolk.”

The Imperial highway was laid out like a rectangle within the borders of Ferelden, with a single tail in the west which snaked down into the Korcari Wilds and the ruins of Ostagar, the site of King Cailan’s disastrous stand against the Darkspawn at the opening of the Fifth Blight. Gwaren was unfortunately placed far to the south and east of the closest corner of the rectangle, with a swath of the northern Brecellian forest and blighted lands between them and the Bannorn.

“ _Fine,”_ Neria groaned, though she was no more pleased with their destination. “We go south into the Blight-sickened wilds, of _course._ To meet the Dalish of all people- why _not!_ ” She was very frustrated and upset, and Jylan stood to see if it would be possible for him to calm her. It was not. Dirth shook himself as he stood and looked up between the three adults as they spoke.

“If the three of you choose to go north and wait instead, please understand that I will have to part from you at the Highway,” Zevran cautioned, and this stressed Neria further until she closed her eyes to stop the tears from coming. “I cannot have him travel all the way to Ostagar because I asked and then not show up to meet him there, nor do I think I can wait ten years for the next _Arlath’vhen_.”

“I said _fine_ ,” she answered him tightly. Neria took a deep, sharp breath and held it, trying to calm herself. When she opened her eyes it was to give Zevran a dark look. “But if we’re going south then we don’t need to go to the Highway, it’s north of us.”

“I- well, it’s a _paved road,_ you know.” Zevran replied, but with a confused fluster at the start. “The alternative is to cut across the heart of the Brecillian forest and end up in the wilds.”

“It’s faster,” Neria told him shortly. “You said the start of spring. That’s what- a fortnight?” They would never make it such a distance in only two weeks, it was at least two hundred miles of forest, or three hundred of detours and the highway.

“Faster by what measure?” Zevran answered and his voice openly doubted her. “I, for one, do not fancy running in circles from now until Summersend.”

“Please do not argue,” Jylan said and was ignored by the offended huff Neria made.

“I already told you, I spent a season in the Brecellian _by myself_.”

“ _Which_ season?” Zevran countered darkly. “Summer and Winter are very different under the open sky.”

“ _Which season_ do you think _every Clan in Thedas_ has been travelling through to get to Ostagar?”

“By your own admission, _you_ are no Keeper who can bend the forest to your will.”

“I’m not a Keeper, but if it’s a test you want- fine. It’s a test you’ll get.” And without a word more, Neria stomped off away from their camp and down into the snowy hillside leading far and away from the road they’d travelled yesterday.

“Werewolves!” Zevran said, throwing his hands in the air and going after her, leaving Jylan and Dirthamen and Jeevan to all quickly hurry after them. “Sylvans- trees given sense and words and rage! Haunted campsites, mad apostates, the veil so thin you can stick your arm through it!” Jeevan nearly slipped and fell in the snow, and it was very deep here. They left the tent and their belongings and the fire still burning to follow Neria through the snow, and she did not slow down for them. “Slow down, will you! There are wolves and all kinds of creatures who will eat your apprentice for a snack!”

The air- moved.

“There are plenty of creatures about, and _none of them_ are a threat.” Neria’s voice was very clear. Jylan could no longer see her and her tracks vanished- Zevran was forced to stop in the middle of a snowdrift, a clearing now open around them with only their own tracks behind them, none of Neria’s left to follow. When Jylan looked back, the downhill path they had taken this far was lost to his eyes. Oh.

“…Did I really just storm off after an angry Dalish-trained mage into the middle of a forest?” Zevran asked no one.

“Yes, and I unwisely followed you,” Jylan answered, and received a flat and unimpressed look for it. “I do not know this magic, nor how to explain it.”

“ _Good._ ” Neria’s voice said, and with a rustle of branches Jylan felt a heavy mound of snow drop down on his head and shoulders. He was wearing the hood of his robe, not his cloak, and felt the snow gather and drop between the two layers as he shook himself off. “Now you listen to me, Zevran Arainai. Was I Talanulea’ First?” The sky was very dark and the branches of the trees felt very close and tight together, which was not good considering how early it was in the morning.

“No I wasn’t, but Shamalia is an _incredible_ mage and there was _no_ shame in being Second to her. Have I been living in a _Shem’len_ city for the last three years? Sadly yes, but you’ve only been around for a season when it’s too cold to bother going out into the woods-” Woods which also now seemed far, far too close together and dark, the trees concerningly close together and gargantuan in size. “And I don’t carry a bow just to fool the city guards with. I _welcome_ your advice and am _thankful_ both for your help and all you’ve offered to give, but let me be _very clear_ about one thing.”

The snow was gone. It had not melted, it was simply gone. Grass swept across the dark ground and coiled green and lush under their feet, primroses and buttercups swelling up and blooming between the tangles. The air breathed suddenly warm over them. Dirthamen’s tail was between his legs and the dog shied away from the grass with a panicked yip, Jeevan swaying and breathless from the magic he could truly _feel_ as Neria manipulated the veil with her glamour.

“If I say I can get us through the Brecellian Forest unharmed and faster than the Imperium’s precious highway-” The air moved, the forest pulled back, and they were up to their knees in the same cold snow with tracks peppering the ice in too many paths to follow. Jeevan dropped on his rump in the snow and stared up, dizzy, as Jylan reached down to help him. When he looked up, Neria was standing in front of Zevran with her arms folded and chin stuck out stubbornly. “-then I can _get us through the Brecellian_.”

Zevran took a deep, stern breath in through the nose.

“Please stop arguing with her,” Jylan interrupted again, and Zevran held that breath very tightly for several seconds.

“ _Fine._ ” He said. It did not matter if he was speaking to Jylan or to Neria. He showed both palms to her looking for peace, and found it. “So be it. We shall go through the forest and you will lead us there. When we arrive safely at Ostagar, I will pretend that none of this happened and that you are not a Fade-conjured copy of the Hero of Ferelden, albeit a little younger and curvier than he is. Honestly, if you had done the same thing with fire then I would not be able to continue this affair without referring to you exclusively as _‘Soren’_ for the rest of the journey. You two are either going to fit like cogs on a wheel, or you’re going to burn the whole country down.”

Neria smiled at him and then dropped a little curtsy, though it carried an air of insincerity.

“Thank you, m’lord. We should go take down camp now, shouldn’t we? Daylight’s burning, and we only have a fortnight till Wintersend.”

Neria took off with too much ease back up the clearly marked hill to where their campfire’s smoke was rising between the trees. Dirthamen and Jeevan followed her, the boy calling after her to teach him the spells she’d used, how to use that kind of magic. Jylan was slower to begin the climb through the snow, and was given additional pause by the way Zevran lingered in the snow with a thoughtful look on his face.

“Master Arainai?” H ecalled back.

“Do you trust her, Jylan?” The question seemed out of place, until one remembered that trust was required to follow a mage into a forest where she could very easily lead them to their deaths with a thought.

“Yes.”

“Tell me the truth then,” he said, pitching his voice so it wouldn’t carry across the snow. “Noblewoman or not, Dalish or no, you’re just about ready to marry her, aren’t you?” his question was wholly inappropriate and ill timed.

“No, ser. I am not.”

And Jylan continued back up the hill.


	46. What Is Deserved

 

Taking to the Brecilian forest had been a mistake. Jylan did not have any concrete evidence of this assertion as of yet, but he remained certain that forgoing the meandering roads from Gwaren to the Imperial Highway in favour of the wild woodlands and deep forests, in the middle of winter, had been a mistake. As a Tranquil he was not vulnerable to the effects of regret, fear, annoyance or anxiety, and this meant he was not emotionally impeded by their circumstances. But, that being said, Jylan was also not an idiot.

The road would have been covered in snow and presented multiple points for ambush by bandits and exhortative highwaymen. The road would have had a clear beginning and end point with multiple places to stop, rest, and resupply a small party. The road would have been winding, but ultimately level, muddy, but typically sound.

The forest floor was also covered in snow, but the forest floor was not level and it was not sound. Neria selected a path for them which was easiest for the donkey to manage, which meant that to cross a hundred meters in some places required switching back and forth and back and forth and back and forth between the trees for nearly twice that distance. The going was slow, and very cold. He did not know how she could navigate for the trees and the snow-capped forest canopy, and for many hours at a time it felt as if they covered nearly no ground at all.

To travel in a snowy forest in a robe was a point of repeated and tedious labour for Jylan. He could not become frustrated, but the robe had the poor habit of gathering snow across his knees and creating a heavy weight there which he had to push off after every few strides. Similarly, a great amount of snow enjoyed gathering behind his ankles. On the road from Redcliffe to Amaranthine last winter, he had been in a carriage for the entire journey and the robes he’d worn had been an asset in the idle cold. Now whilst moving under his own power alone he considered, very seriously, slashing the garment with his knife.

His only memories and experience with similar travel had been the flight from Kinloch Hold to Amaranthine, a journey of many weeks in the pouring rain and chill of Northern Ferelden. He and Owain had not fled into the wilds however, but remained on the Imperial Highway. They had survived exclusively off of pity and beggar’s alms before reaching Vigil’s Keep in very poor health and ragged condition. This journey, comparatively, was not as physically arduous: they had had time to gather food and camping supplies. Both Zevran and Neria knew what they were doing. Still, the going was not easy or pleasant.

At least Neria and Zevran were present for guidance, and they knew the dangers of their surroundings. Jylan fell significantly more than either other adult, because Zevran was able to control himself in such a way that he only ever, occasionally, stumbled or gave a little slip. Neria did not seem to notice the snow at all, and at times when she moved ahead to scout Jylan would lose sight of her completely until she appeared above them on some precarious ridge of snow, utterly unphased by the distance and exertion of her travels. Dirthamen, being a young war hound, moved with determination and often took the shortest path across the terrain and then had to sit and wait for Jylan to lead the donkey down to him.

He resolved not to complain or voice his opinion on the method of travel. To do so would have rekindled the argument between Zevran and Neria, and that would have created disharmony between the assassin and the former midwife. Jylan would not feed into his nephew’s very obvious anxiety and terror over the deep snows and eerie silences of the southern Brecilian, as Jeevan was a young mage and the forest was said to be haunted by many spirits from long forgotten battles and wayward adventurers.

Neria called them to make camp with at least two or more hours of daylight remaining on the first day, and Jylan found this most agreeable. He did not know how far they had travelled and could make no accurate assumptions on the matter. Jeevan helped him clear the snow and pile it up in a pit just large enough for the fire and the tent, which Zevran assembled with ease under the hollow belly of an aged and twisted tree.

The trees of this forest, even so close to Gwaren and high in the north, were massive things. Jylan could not have put his arms around them, and their roots were the tangled reason which made the ground so difficult to traverse. Arainai sent him with a hatchet into the trees no further than the sight of the tent to gather dead wood, warning him not to take from any standing trees or shrubs.

“In these woods, it is much, much safer to leave green things alone.” None of the wood was green in the frost and snow but Jylan did not say this, he understood the assassin’s meaning just fine and followed the instructions. He made several such excursions to gather from a fallen tree not far from their camp and gathered a significant pile of wood, and on his final trip back from the gathering place he found Neria had returned and begun to dry the large branches and broken kindling with the same spell as last night.

Hanging from her hand on a length of twine were two dead rabbits in a snare, a small trace of blood marring their white coats.

“You managed to hunt?” Jylan asked although he did not know why. Of course she had managed to hunt, otherwise the animals would not be there.

“Mhmm,” she answered cheerfully. “I saw lots of traces of deer in the area, but there’s no point trying for big game. Anything we catch we have to eat or carry.”

The fire was properly struck and Jylan sat next to it, noting that Zevran had already tended to the ass for tonight and was fussing with something inside the tent. Before he was fully settled, Neria had set-up a simple rack from three pieces of wood and hung the rabbits over it, near the edge of the snow, and she deftly skinned, gutted, and bled the first rabbit before he was able to come over to her side.

“Have you ever portioned game before?” She asked him, perhaps only to make conversation.

“No, and I do not travel easily. If you instruct me on the method then it may become a task I can fulfill when we make camp each night.”

“Well, you make the first cut here,” Neria explained, her lesson catching Jeevan’s attention as certainly as the blood from her kill had attracted Dirthamen. “And another like this, and if you do it right then you can…” pull the entire pelt off in one piece.

The smell of blood was off-putting in a way few things were, and the sound of the act was likewise very unappealing. However, the two rabbit pelts were creamy, white, and very soft, and she removed the parts of least value from the animals and left them in a pile for Dirthamen, who was happy to chew through the offal and feet. The heads she worked with first, taking the smallest of Zevran’s pots and a scoop of snow before placing the animals’ brains over the fire to boil. She intended to cure the skins and keep them, and this was made all the more obvious when she settled with her knife and the two furs by the fire and began to scrape and clean the inside of them. She did not have a proper drying rack, meaning the skins would remain very small, but she merely shrugged at this notion and continued her busy work.

“Even small skins can be stitched to form a big blanket,” she wisely corrected him, and Jylan saw the sense in it.

Rabbits did not have much to them as far as meat, but the kills offered flavour to the pot of boiled cabbage and salt which Jylan prepared for them after the informative lesson. When they had eaten, Neria rinsed the pot with more snow melt, filled it again, and washed the hides with a small amount of soap from somewhere in her travel gear. Jeevan tried to learn from Neria and his spellbook for the remaining hour of daylight, and Jylan had not understood the silence from Zevran until he paid closer attention and realized the assassin was soundly asleep by their fire.

Neria seemed to ignore the assassin’s napping, and as the forest began to feel truly dark around them she asked if Jylan would prefer to take first watch or third.

“You look tired after today, and a few of those falls looked like they really hurt.” Her kindness and concern were appreciated. “I don’t think there’s anything really concerning in this part of the forest so tonight should be nice and quiet, it’s up to you if you want to stay up now or get up later.”

“I will take first watch,” he answered, “Am I to assume Zevran will take second?”

“That’s how he made it sound earlier when he mentioned it.” Oh. Jylan had not heard the discussion. Very well, he would make an effort to watch the hours more closely tonight than last, and wake the assassin when he felt too tired to continue his watch.

Neria took Jeevan into the tent with her to settle and sleep, and after a few minutes of persistent whining Jylan convinced Dirthamen to get up and join them without him. Neria’s skins had been stretched near the fire as far as could be managed without the thread or frame to hold them properly, and Jylan ensured the furs dried as he sat up awake under the cold sky.

What felt like perhaps three or four hours later, Zevran woke himself up with a deep breath and a yawn. He sat up with a stretch and a friendly comment about not being too old for this sort of thing just yet. He looked for his pipe and hummed pleasantly to himself, and stated he would watch for the night now that he felt properly rested.

“Should I remain here by the fire?” Jylan asked. He had not actually been inside the tent save to settle Jeevan last night. If Zevran had chosen to sleep out here, did that mean the shelter was too small? His concerns were waved off easily.

“Go, go, you’ll be much more comfortable in the tent, I should think. Wardens rough it more often than they should, but I know for a fact you can fit at least three people and all their gear in those tents if you’re determined enough.” With Neria, Jeevan, and Dirthamen already inside, that sort of determination may be necessary.

Before going inside the low shelter, Jylan told himself he would not disturb them if there was not room for him. Pleasantly, there was in fact both space and the delighted look Dirthamen gave him when the tent flaps parted. Dirth was right up against the wall of the tent with the rucksacks and Neria’s bow piled between him and the canvas, then it was two bundles of cloaks and blankets: Jeevan between the dog and his mentor, then Neria herself with a bit of open space before the other tent wall.

“Stay,” he offered the word of warning to Dirthamen, who panted and then set his head down on Jeevan’s lump again, watching Jylan climb into the tent and crawl over the cold wet ground to reach Neria’s other side. He heard his dog’s tail wagging happily but Dirthamen remained in place, and Neria did not stir to shift at all in her sleep. Before he laid down, he found the ground covered with a bedroll and the last of their blankets sitting unused behind her, waiting for him.

He kept his cloak and robe on but finally removed his boots. His feet would be colder, but far more comfortable, and he had already stepped over Neria’s empty boots to come this far. He settled down facing the canvas wall of the tent but found this much colder than he could tolerate and rolled over, tucking his arms around himself with both cloak and blanket for warmth. He remained cold, but sleep overall came easily.

Jylan was briefly roused some hours later with something warm and sweetly scented under his nose. His clothes were warm and he was comfortable, so he disregarded his surroundings and took a settling breath to go back to sleep. He was roused again and recognized it as disruptive movement, his eyes fluttering lazily in the dark. He could hear nothing but his own breaths and maybe the distant crackle of the fire, the air in the tent was colder than he was under the blankets.

His left arm was physically moved and made to bend towards him, and then the pleasantly warm weight pressed over his right arm, and his chest, and his thighs, moved awa-

-Jylan sat up. It was a fast and disruptive motion intended to wake him up. He needed to wake up. He had to be awake and to speak and-

“I apologize,” -and apologize for what he had forgotten his sleeping self was often obliged to do when he shared sleeping arrangements. To be drawn towards warmth. To embrace that warmth without conscious control of himself.

“ _Shh,_ _go back to sleep_ …” Neria’s voice whispered to him, a firm touch pushing on his shoulder to make him lay down again. He would not lay down again. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. He had pulled Neria to him, or he had crowded into her space, or he had otherwise invaded and disrupted her sleep with unwarranted and wholly inappropriate contact. “ _Jeeva- Jylan, hush, it’s alright. It’s my turn to take watch.”_

“I accosted you.” He could not tell if his touch itself had been disgraceful or simply warm and close, but that would only impact the severity of his transgression, not that he had done wrong in the first place. With his siblings it had been a non-issue, a shared family trait. With his young nieces and nephews, it had been a method of affection-giving. With Neria it was offensive. With An’eth it had led to-

“ _No such thing,_ ” Neria hushed him, and he felt her creep closer to him again and touch his face. Her gloves were warm and her touch was gentle, and she kissed his cheek with her cool lips. “ _Hug your nephew; go back to sleep._ ” The sweet smell had been _her_ smell.

Neria left the tent and Jylan did not have time to explain or excuse himself for his behaviour. His only option, unless he chose to leave the tent and go after her, was to do as she had instructed and take her place beside Jeevan. If he followed her he would settle the matter sooner, but if he followed her then he would once again be encroaching on her space. To chase her would cause anxiety and worsen the situation, therefore he could not do so. He remained in the tent and moved over until he was next to Jeevan.

Zevran came into the tent a few moments later, removed his boots and laid down in the spot Jylan had left. To pre-emptively ensure he did not wake up embracing the assassin this time, Jylan placed one arm around his sleeping nephew. Even if the child did not approve of the arrangement when he woke up, it was far more socially acceptable to embrace family.

The next day continued much as the first had, but with more conversation as Neria led them steadily in what felt like a south-western direction, though the sun was out of sight for much of it. There was more conversation near noon, when Neria signalled a stop. She nimbly climbed an outcropping of stone and ice and tree roots, and pulled down her bow from her shoulder. She carried her arrows in a quiver at her hip, which made them less likely to spill out when she performed such athletic feats.

She nocked an arrow, posed herself with it half-drawn for several long minutes while the three of them rested quietly, and then without a single waver in focus her arm pulled the rest of the way back, sights aligned, and she fired off into the woods. There was a flutter of wings off to the south of them where the arrow had vanished, and then Neria slung the weapon across her back again and climbed down to them.

“Be right back,” she said as she carried off lightly through the snow, passing out of sight beyond a tree that was as wide as a horse. Jylan understood that if Neria did not come back, the three of them would likely die in these woods.

But she did come back, and in one gloved hand she had the feet of a fat winter pheasant, the bloodied arrow in her other hand and a thin, dripping trail of red marring the snow. The bleeding stopped shortly after, its grey and green feathers fluttering lifeless for the rest of the day after she tied their dinner to the donkey following Jylan.

“Do all members of a clan learn to hunt?” Zevran asked as they continued their journey.

“Most children learn the basics of shooting a bow or weaving a snare,” Neria answered, and she didn’t seem as annoyed with the topic as Jylan had often seen her become. “By the time they’re ready to apprentice, most give it up unless they really need to forage for themselves. Hunters, of course, are the obvious exception, but the Clan’s craftsmen might decide to go look for something specific and that means knowing how to get along on their own.”

“And the mages?”

Neria made a non-committal noise in her throat.

“I just liked it, being out and away from everybody but whoever else was out hunting.” She carried on ahead of them, checking under a large fallen tree and then hiking and climbing up over it, standing tall and confident in the bright winter light and scanning their surroundings. “I was Second, so I didn’t have quite as much to worry about. I don’t come close to what a real hunter can do, but I knew more than most expected.”

She climbed back down the far side of the tree and poked her head under it, waving them to come along and duck under to follow her. They crossed a stream and stopped to water the donkey and to rest briefly as she scouted again, and Zevran entertained himself by asking Jeevan if he could see any fish in the cold flow. Jylan could think of nothing useful to do after filling the waterskin, so simply rested on a snow-covered rock and waited.

Neria came back again and the exercise of travelling seemed good for her. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and her loose blonde hair was wind-swept, her lips chapped over the grey folds of her thick scarf. She carried plenty of gear on her shoulders and hips but moved easily despite it, her gloves and boots and cloak all fine for the harsh weather. She knelt near where he was sitting to fill her own skin, and Jylan found an apology in his mouth for last night.

But they would not tarry here much longer. If he upset her now then she would be distracted from her tracking and navigation. He said nothing.

They covered much ground that day, and despite the pheasant hanging from the donkey’s back Neria vanished again near the end of the long hike and came back with another trio of rabbits and a glowing smile.

“I know, _I know_ , but I saw the tracks and just _had_ to follow them.” There was no need for her to apologize, the more meat she was able to catch the less of the vegetables they would have to eat, which meant they would last considerably longer. The rabbits were roasted and eaten, and Neria opted for first watch, Zevran took the second again, leaving Jylan with third.

He did not know how to approach her about last night, and when they retired into the tent he laid himself down between the tent wall and Dirthamen. He slept relatively well and was able to get up with his arms untangling from around his dog when Zevran crept inside the wake him for the final watch.

They took down camp at dawn and carried on. Neria and Zevran both seemed pleased with their progress, and the forest grew deeper and the trees much larger as they continued.

They encountered a nest of giant spiders. Jylan found their existence wholly unnecessary and Neria took the better part of an hour to track a safer path around the nest rather than risk them going through it. Unfortunately, despite her best efforts they were still beset upon by a group of the unreasonably sized arachnids and Jylan was as useless as Jeevan when it came to stopping the assault. Dirthamen proved highly able to the task, and Neria’s bow did significant damage before survivors fell swiftly on Zevran’s blades. No one was injured, but Jylan was now poised to revisit his personal misgivings about their decision to traverse the forest rather than the highway.

Neria found this amusing.

“Were you afraid of spiders before the Rite?”

“I carried a reasonable fear of any creature that was venomous or larger than myself at the time, nevermind those who fulfilled both criteria. Specifically, I twice experienced the terror of going into the Circle’s lower storage levels, once with spiders and once without. I do not consider my sense of unease to be detrimental under such circumstances as a dark crypt or a dark forest.”

“ _Fair enough_ , Ser Tenderfoot.” He was not tenderfooted, he was tranquil and not an idiot.

Several hours after the spiders the way forward became less and less manageable. They were made to stop when they could look ahead through the dimming forest and see only constant rises and falls of rocky land with towering trees planted firmly in the deep snow. To spare any more painful falls or possible risks to the donkey, Neria paused at the outcropping and began to take deep, steady breaths. The air around her moved, magic began to fill the air, and with both arms down she gathered power between her fingers and drew her hands up slowly, silky grey light spilling like warm sunshine down across the ravine.

The way was inexplicably easy to cross after that. Jylan was aware of the magic in a dizzying way, a headache working its way into his awareness, but he did not slip and he did not feel as cold. The ground and snow seemed firm and even to him, even though he knew he was climbing and putting in as much work as before. It felt easier, and the brand could not set itself fully aflame even as they were bathed in Dalish magic which carried them along. They covered a great distance in this haze of mystic power, and when Neria unbent the world they were knee-deep in snow in a large winter-frosted glade.

Although the magic was a great aid to him, Neria’s bright mood dimmed considerably. Her steps became clumsy and tired, and Zevran cautioned her to perhaps sit for a few moments now that they were sheltered from the wind. She accepted this cautious word and pulled out her waterskin, drinking deeply from it and trying to catch her breath.

There was a black spring of fresh water bubbling in the middle of this glade, and the water had a wide ring of bare earth around it with no snow. There was mist gathered over the surface of the water, and in the middle of the spring-

Oh.

That was not good.

“Can we stop here?” Jeevan asked, and this warranted a brief look from Jylan. His nephew was staring at the pond and blinking slowly, swaying on his feet. Beside him, Zevran stifled a yawn.

“I agree, it’s not such a bad place to spend the night.” Yes it was. This was a very bad place to spend the night.

“I don’t… think that’s wise.” Neria told them, and then rubbed one eye with her palm. “There’s… something not right. I think I know what it is, but…” She also yawned now.

“There is a demon in the pond,” Jylan stated, because it was right there in front of them and he did not understand how the three of them had gone from alert and ready travel to nearly falling asleep on their feet. “Unless you intend to banish or to kill it, Neria, I would not advise resting here.”

“What…?” Neria asked slowly, blinking like she was tired and then frowning.

“Where?” Zevran did not believe him either.

It was in the middle of the pond, wreathed in white mist and smoke. That mist began to billow out from the water and come towards them, spilling over the snow. Dirthamen began to growl loudly, hackles raised, and the smoke twisted around Zevran’s legs before he gave a heavy sway and an alarmed grunt. The smoke swept towards Jeevan-

“Dirthamen, bite.” His hound snapped its jaws but Dirthamen flattened his ears with a frightened keen, eyes wide and white and searching the glade. Oh, the hound could not see the mist? Perhaps the others could not see it either.

Jylan took Jeevan quickly by the arm and pulled the boy behind him, startling the young mage. He pulled the dagger from Velanna out from its sheath and slashed down at the mist. Common sense said it would do nothing, the reality was that Jylan intended to strike it and the strike therefore landed.

A shrill, piercing noise shook the glade. This, Neria and Zevran both recognized and began to struggle against the influence.

“I can’t see _anything_ ,” the assassin hissed, his two long duelling blades drawn and held defensively, one high one low over his body. “Cowardly thing, show yourself!”

“Cut around your legs,” Jylan told him, “It is mist coming from the spring and is tangled around you.”

The sound of magic reached him and Jylan saw Neria with her bow down and an arrow half-drawn, but like Dirthamen and Zevran she was searching without seeing the threat she could now clearly feel.

“The middle of the pond,” he said, “it is hovering a foot or so above the water-” oh. “No, it is moving.”

“Where!?” She shouted. The mist surged up and filled his face, but it did nothing except block his vision. He could not feel it, it carried no sensation or scent. His hearing was unobstructed and he was not aware of himself breathing in anything. When he spoke it was easy to project his voice.

“The mist is covering my face,” he could not swipe or brush it away, he could not even see the hand he used to push it back. “When my vision is restored, I will-” Hm. His wrist was snatched down by no concrete sensation, but it was certainly pinned to his side and he could not move it. The arm holding the knife was similarly struck. He could still speak. “I am restrained.”

“ _Jylan!_ ” Two liquid yellow eyes opened in the grey nothing consuming his field of vision. It was an objectively bad thing, but he simply remained as he was. Dull teeth in multiple rows formed and clattered against each other, spittle like cold snow striking his chin and mouth. He could hear the teeth and the sound of ragged breathing, but no words.

“It is directly in front of me, at my face,” he said, and the demon’s teeth stopped moving. It stared at him, drew closer still and he was obligated to try and tilt his head back to prevent coming on contact with the teeth or the eyes. “I request that you not strike me in your attempts to kill it.” Thin, hard, cold points landed across the back of his head and neck and pried his face back up. Very uncomfortable.

The demon spoke, and it chattered and clicked and talked. He heard nothing but the sound of bone and raw breathing. He was tranquil: he could not be tempted or possessed by a demon of any nature.

Fire erupted around him and Jylan closed his eyes, his clothing becoming very hot very suddenly. He was released and felt himself fall, which was unexpected and came with the unfortunate blast of cold when he landed and sank deeply into the snow. He kept his eyes closed and found his arms and legs mobile again, and he attempted to sit up and get back on his feet.

A second eruption of fire whirled and blasted over his head, and when Jylan looked up he saw a screaming body spinning and hurling itself around in the air. His ears popped and he heard a scream like nails down glass ricocheting around the glade.

Neria released an arrow with a full draw and angry yell, and Zevran had drawn his short bow with its black arrows to help him fight something that was too high and fast for his knives to find. Dirthamen was barking with fury and chasing under the demon, jumping whenever he thought the creature low enough for him to snatch at it with his jaws. When she was no longer aiming the bow, Neria released it with one hand, made a tight fist, and with a full-bodied push launched a twisted braid of red lightning from her palm to chase and snake after the demon, piercing its body and dropping it low enough in the air for Dirthamen to sink a crushing bite into.

The mabari brought the demon down and Zevran jumped down on it with his crimson dagger out, plunging it down and ripping back with it like a saw.

“ _Uncle!_ ” Jeevan crashed through the snow and fell onto him, hands gripping his shoulders and pulling hard on him, crying and wild with fear. Jylan was careful to sheath Velanna’s dagger before rising to a crouch, then permitted his nephew to embrace him.

The demon died under the assault and crumbled to nothing but ash and faded echoes of raw magic, and the fight was done. Jylan stroked his nephew’s head to calm him, but the boy was shaking very hard. Demons could be very frightening and Jeevan’s reaction was not unreasonable.

“ _Jeevan!_ ” Neria came running to them and Jylan realized when she dropped on her knees beside them that she was referring to _him_ with that name, not his nephew. She was afraid, or at least very worried, and she brought her hand quickly down and back through his hair, his hood having fallen back during the struggle.

“I am unharmed,” he told her, lifting one hand from Jeevan to touch her arm with, accepting her gesture of comfort although it was not required. “Jeevan is very frightened.”

“ _So am I,_ ” she said in a shaking voice. “I felt- I felt something _wrong_ but it was so strong- so sudden.”

“I believe it was incensed to act quickly by the presence of a young mage, and then by the curiosity of an unaffected Tranquil.”

“Do either of you see or sense anything else?” Zevran asked in a commanding voice, and this interrupted the conversation. As requested, Jylan looked about the glade for several moments. He saw no more mist, and no glowing eyes or disembodied teeth. The snow remained absent around the pond but the water did not seem quite so black now, merely grey as it mirrored the sky.

“Nothing,” Neria reported. Jylan echoed her.

“Now that the demon is gone,” Jylan continued, “I can agree with your earlier comments that this would be a fair place to camp.” Zevran laughed at his comment, but then nodded his head with amusement and agreement.

“That _thing_ carried you off into the air,” Neria scolded him, gathering his hand with hers and drawing his arm into her lap, Jeevan now calmer but still resting against him for comfort. “I don’t know if I want to sleep here tonight.”

“I am unaffected by demons from a mental and emotional standpoint,” Jylan reminded her. “And am physically unharmed from the event. There is fresh water here and shelter from the wind. It is also growing very dark, and there is no snow to clear for the tent.” She grumbled at him and did not like his argument, but then with a quick look at Zevran to gauge his opinion again, Neria agreed to stay, provided they left at the break of dawn the next morning.

They pitched the tent and started their fire, the pheasant was plucked and cleaned and roasted for them to eat with some of the potatoes from the sack. Zevran stated that he would take first watch to give both Neria and Jeevan a chance to calm down and rest after the attack, and then Jylan would watch after him.

The three of them went into the tent and before anyone could settle down, Jylan spoke to her.

“I must apologize properly for my actions two nights ago,” he said, and even in the dim shadows of encroaching night and the campfire, he saw Neria’s eyes widen and her cheeks go pink.

“It- It’s not a problem.”

“I did not act that way intentionally,” he continued. “It was inappropriate and discourteous of me to place you in such a situation. My brothers and sisters insist it is an honestly acquired trait which I share with them, though I cannot explain its persistence after the Rite’s infliction. I do not mean to embarrass you by making further mention of it, but while it has only happened the one time to my knowledge please know that if what happened that night could be deemed as sexual in nature then I will sleep by the fire instead.”

“Jylan-” she stammered, and raised her palms to quiet him. “It was just- an arm around me.” Good, the extended alternative would likely have humiliated her. “It’s cold at night and- you’re warm. It’s _fine_.”

“Not without your permission or my conscious ability to prevent a repeat of it,” Jylan told her.

“What?” Jeevan piped up, sitting beside Dirthamen who Jylan understood intended to buffer the child from the cold tent wall. “What are you-?” His nephew stopped, looked at him and Neria, and then with a gasp he suddenly jumped up and fled the tent with his cloak and blanket. Jylan did not understand this. When he looked at Neria she was shocked and left wordless by the child’s antics.

They heard Zevran’s curious voice outside. As they both still had their boots on it was Neria who pulled the tent flap back in time to hear-

“They’re going to have sex and I’m not staying in there with them.”

Neria gave a loud, humiliated gasp and covered her face with both hands.

“Jeevan _no_!” she shouted behind her palms, and then she just sat down right there at the entrance to the tent. “That’s _not_ what we were talking about!”

“I have _four_ little siblings!” Jeevan shouted back at her, “I’m eleven! I’m not stupid!” He threw his blanket on the ground next to Zevran’s seated form, and sat down with his arms and legs folded and a surly look for the fire.

Zevran slowly pulled his pipe stem from his mouth, and leaned back to look at where Jylan and Neria were crouched by the tent entrance. He clicked his tongue slowly, replaced the pipe between his teeth, and then levered himself to his feet.

It was only a few strides to the tent, but Zevran crossed the distance and then crouched down in front of them.

“When I am asleep,” Jylan began to explain. “I have the tendency to embrace whomever is closest to me. I did so the other night to Neria and was apologizing for it now. The child misunderstood.” Zevran listened to him and when Jylan finished his explanation the assassin continued to crouch there, a thin ribbon of sweet smoke escaping his pipe, and then a small cloud of it peeling away from his lips.

“Okay,” he said. “I believe you, but I don’t think either of you understand the real tragedy of how I’m not making cruel jokes at your expense right now. Truly, those who know me best know I cannot _resist_ encouraging youthful passions. Frightened apostates fleeing the scene of a murder- what’s not to love? But you, my friend, are Tranquil.”

“I am aware of that,” Jylan stated. “Which is why the situation is not as Jeevan misunderstood it.”

“Have you two discussed what’s going on here?” Zevran asked, gesturing between Jylan and Neria, who was holding her face with both hands but no longer covering it. “Have you been honest? Because I am not interested in policing the feelings and actions of two adults, but Mistress Surana, I’m not going to turn a blind eye if I fear something is amiss between you.”

“I’m not going to be like her-” Neria swore automatically. “I won’t. I would _never_.”

“Are you saying that to me, or to yourself?” Zevran challenged. This did not seem fair.

“Neria is not at fault,” Jylan told him, and Zevran gave him a slow, steady look. “She has done nothing wrong.”

“Remember, my friend, that you would have said the same thing for An’eth right up until her trial in Amaranthine.”

“An’eth in no way compares with Neria,” Jylan stated as a matter of fact. “She understands that she is above and deserving of far more than what a Tranquil can provide.”

“Do I?” Her voice was soft and unexpected. When Jylan looked at her Neria was still sitting there on the ground with her hands on her face. She pursed her lips and shook her head at him, then looked at Zevran. “You’re right, we need to talk- and be honest with each other. We’ll do that. When he comes out for second watch Jeevan can come back in the tent.”

Zevran placed his pipe stem back in his mouth and nodded to them with a hum, then stood and went back to the fire for his watch.

Neria closed the tent flaps, plunging the two of them into darkness with Dirthamen, who was sitting up and watching them from his spot. Neria took Jylan’s hand and led him back to the sleeping mats, and when she started taking her boots off he mimicked her. She crept over the sleeping rolls on the cold ground and then sat with her legs crossed, gathering a blanket over her legs and pulling her cloak closed around her for warmth.

She cast a soft orb of light between them and held it in her lap, and this finally drew Dirthamen over to come and lay his head in Jylan’s lap, an adoring look spared up at him for a few moments before his hound grew content and relaxed with his chin on Jylan’s knee. He pet and scratched his dog, and then looked at Neria as she gathered her words and met his gaze. He did not know what she wanted them to talk about.

“I don’t know…” she began softly, “if I’m _projecting_ onto you, or, making _assumptions_ about you, or if it’s just really _you_ but…” She closed her eyes, then looked down at the dog in his lap, and ran her hands around the orb in her own hold. “But when I’m with you everything tells me I care for you- that I love you.” Her voice fell until it was soft and husky and hurting, and it was his fault. “I feel- _trusted_ , and safe, and listened to and- and _maybe_ , Jeevan, my bar’s just really low- low enough for a Tranquil to pass over. But _to me_ it’s not about expectations, it’s about _you_.”

He did not know what to say to her. He did not know how to apologize for this. He did not know how he had permitted it to happen a second time and to ruin another friendship.

“I do not know what I did wrong,” he admitted. “I did not intend to trick or entice you into such a change, Neria. I apologize for the harm I have inspired.”

“No- _no_ , you’ve done _nothing_ wrong…” He knew that.

She would now tell him that her affliction could be accommodated if he were only willing to make such gestures towards her which would give her comfort. She would ask him to adopt the mimicry and behaviours which An’eth had so desired from him. He could refuse her, he could say no. She had no right to command him and no power by which to force him. But he would not say no. He knew, even if he could not find the words to describe the reason, that if she asked him he would say yes. It would ultimately poison the friendship between them, but he would say yes. She had done nothing which would warrant his refusal of what would bring her pleasure and comfort even if it were only in the short-term until she grew fed up with his glaring inadequacies.

“This is- _my_ problem,” Neria said, and Jylan waited for her solution which would involve his active participation. “And if I _care about you_ as much as I know I do, then- then I _owe it_ to both of us to do right by that.” She was becoming very upset and her voice was growing thick with emotion. Doubtless, she felt some embarrassment as she searched for the way to ask him for what she wanted. “I won’t do a _damn thing_ like she did, Jeevan, I _won’t_.”

Then he would have to describe what An’eth had wanted from him. Very well, but he would wait for her to ask.

“ _Space_.” That was not a question of intimacy. Jylan lifted his gaze from the orb in her lap and looked at her. Neria’s eyes were glistening with tears, but she was not crying. Her jaw seemed locked, and her words were tightly spoken in the back of her throat. “However much you need, or more. Whatever suits you and makes _you_ feel safe and listened to. I want- I want _no doubts_ that if I’m around you then you’re content or satisfied with me being here. I want- _my friend._ And I need to know you and Jeevan are going to be safe and- I’ll take you to the Dalish, or I’ll spend the rest of my life running to make sure you’re never in danger from that Guild or the College ever again. But- but you just say the word, Jeevan, because it’s not fair to you otherwise- you just _say the word_ and I go and I never come back. I won’t- I will _never_ be like her.”

“I do not fully understand you,” he said. “You claim to be in love with me, and say you will leave because of it?”

“Not- _in the middle of the Brecilian,”_ she choked, and finally lost one tear before quickly swiping it away off her own cheek. “I’d lead you out of here first, get you to the Highway or all the way to Ostagar like Zevran wants. I said I want you to be _safe_ and that means getting you out of where I’ve led you. But then, after that- yes. If you think it’s better for me to be away from you then- then I just go away.”

“Where would you go?” He did not understand. She loved him and therefore she would leave? Neria gave an elaborate, desperate shrug and looked up at the low tent ceiling, searching for distraction.

“I don’t _know?_ ” She admitted in a cracked voice. “Stay in the forest, maybe? Go north to Cumberland on my own? Wander around the Korcari wilds like a mad woman? I’ve no idea, I don’t know, I don’t even think I care anymore. I just-” she took her hands off the spell orb and placed them down on the cold, damp sleeping mats between them, pressing her palms into the fabric. “I _just_ want _you_ and _Jeevan_ to be _safe._ ”

“Then you should not leave,” he told her, because he still did not understand and now he said as much. “I do not see the connection between feeling love and demanding separation- not unless you reasonably intend to break your affection, in which case separation would serve you best. I made similar suggestions to An’eth in Vigil’s Keep, stating that I would return to the Guildsmen to facilitate the wearing out of her emotional bond. If that is the case here, then I would agree that you should leave, but perhaps not permanently. You could remain with Jeevan and I until we are settled either in Amaranthine or another Arling, leave, and return when you no longer feel burdened by your feelings.”

She looked up at him, still holding back her tears through determination alone.

“Is that what you want me to do?”

“I…” Tranquil did not have wants. Tranquil did not have likes. “…am best served by whichever path brings you happiness. Would you be happy wandering the Korcari Wilds like a mad woman, or remaining in the Brecilian by yourself?”

“No, I don’t think so…”

“Then I do not believe you should do so. I believe you should stay- at least until such time where my inability to feel love or affection for you proves burdensome and a point of discomfort. You should be happy, it is what you deserve.”

Another of her tears fell, but this time she did not strike it from her own cheek.

“…What else do I deserve?” She asked him in a tired voice.

“To be loved,” he stated, because the matter was simple. “To be respected and fondly regarded. To be given affection and validation in whichever form is most appealing to you. If you desire to hunt, then you should be given the liberty to do so, and if you fear the trials of midwifery then you should not feel compelled or commanded to endure it. Your relationships should be satisfying and pleasing in all forms.”

“And what do _you_ deserve?”

“To be useful.” Again, the matter was simple. Neria watched him for several moments after he spoke, and then she slowly began to frown.

“What- that… that’s it?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t deserve to be loved?”

“It would not be fair to the other person,” he answered, and then folded his hands over Dirthamen’s sleeping head. “It is not fair to you to find yourself compelled to make such an investment in me when I cannot return the effort or labour. It is not fair to Dirthamen that he is bonded to a master who is emotionally detached from him. It is not fair that my siblings were caused such immediate pain by my hurried departure from Gwaren, but I have not had much cause to think of them since we left the alienage itself. I do not see why I should be deserving of something that only hurts the people who give it to me.”

“Does it only hurt?” Neria asked him, and Jylan remained quiet. He did not know what she meant. “Do you know… how much happier Jeevan and Sanjay were with you around? How much happier Ariyah was after you started helping her? Rian was happy and calm enough to take out that sitar on First Day for us, and Saya kept telling me how he hadn’t played it since your mother died. You brought Saya _back to_ her family. I don’t think you hurt any of them by letting them love you, Jeevan.”

“I hurt them by leaving.”

“Masao did that,” she corrected him, “Masao… and fate. Your left to help your nephew, I’m pretty sure that’s a form of love even if it isn’t the warmth and joy of it. You’re staying with him and on that first morning you were talking about how far you’ll go to make sure you will _always_ be with him, right up until he won’t need either of us anymore. Your reasons are your reasons, but it still _feels like_ love on our end.”

“What about yourself?” Jylan asked her, ignoring that in this private moment she had returned again to the use of his family name. She likely meant it as a form of affection or respect, as his nephew Jeevan was not in the tent to confuse the names. “What you claim is a matter of romantic love, is it not?” She withdrew behind her own eyes for a moment, then gave a hesitant nod.

“I think so, yes.”

“Intimate love is not the same as the support for a sibling or nephew.” Their friendship was going to wither and die the way his relationship with An’eth had. He did not know how to salvage it. “Though I am physically present, Neria, your emotional labour would never be returned. I cannot love you. I cannot smile for you or laugh or whisper things you may want to hear. Intimacy would never exist between us in a satisfying manner. You would not be happy with me. Your satisfaction would be limited and likely short-lived. Consider the detrimental effect my tranquil nature would have on any children I gave you, children who would know with absolute certainty that their father had no capacity to love them.” A change overcame her face and Jylan stopped talking. He waited for her to answer him with what she was thinking now.

“Have you- _thought_ of that?” She asked, but it was only a partial question. “Children? If I- if _we-?_ ”

“There are several remedies which would prevent conception if you and I became intimately known to one another,” he said, with a vague understanding that this topic was not appropriate. “Otherwise, regardless of the presence of an emotional connection, pregnancy would be a possibility. As we are both healthy, the children would likely be born healthy as well, though with a significant risk of magical inheritance.”

“Humour me,” she said, her face frozen and eyes staring, tears forgotten. “If I was pregnant by you, would you stay?”

“I see no reason why I would abandon you regardless of your state or my role in such affairs.” Though, for the sake of simplicity matters would be easier if he was the father, provided Neria’s lover was no longer present. “If I acquire stable employment again then I will likely make sufficient means to support Jeevan and an infant and a portion of your own expenses.”

“Would you _marry me?_ ”

“Ideally, that step would be covered before questions of pregnancy could arise,” he answered. “If you are leading with the assumption that you would find yourself pregnant beforehand, then it would depend moderately on the circumstances. If I was the father, or an elven man who was unworthy of you to such a degree as to abandon you, then yes. If the father was human, then perhaps not as the fact that I am not the father would be far too obvious and likely to cause you embarrassment every time you introduced your human child and your elven husband.” Neria pulled a face at him.

“No shems,” she said. “And no other elves.”

“Then yes, under such circumstances I would marry you.”

Neria became quiet and remained that way for several long moments. He did not know what to say to break the silence, so simply let it be. She took her time and when she spoke it was in a soft voice.

“If I stay,” she hushed, “if we meet the Warden Commander and he gives Jeevan and I sponsorship, so we can all three stay together… What does that look like to you? What- if you know I love you, Jeevan, what’s the ideal outcome for you?”

“What is ideal, what is likely, and what is best are not the same things, Neria.”

“What’s the best outcome?” She asked.

“That you wake up tomorrow and your feelings for me have vanished.” He said. “They were only an odd dream induced by the stress of fleeing the city. You wake up tomorrow and laugh, thank me for listening to you, and never feel such a compulsion again. We continue forward as friends, and when we are settled you find someone who is able to love you deeply and fully, who marries you without hesitation and who makes you very happy.”

His words hurt her. They were disrespectful of her emotional state and he understood that, but hopefully she understood that he was right and that what he had said did in fact paint the objectively best outcome for them.

“What’s likely?” Neria asked him softly.

“One of two outcomes,” he explained, though this was more difficult to phrase. “The first is that our friendship will deteriorate from the stress and anxiety you are likely to experience due to my emotional vacancy and lack of response to your plea. You may rationalize the matter as my fault and grow angry with me. It will snuff out your romantic feelings by replacing them with contempt and distrust. Either you will then leave us when we escape the forest, or you will take Jeevan and inform me that I am the one who must make a separate way. The second possibility is that you will renege on your pledge not to imitate An’eth and, driven by your own needs, will beg or otherwise compel me to play into your desires for intimacy and performative affection. As it was with An’eth, matters will likely only continue for a period of several weeks before the performance wears thin and you begin to realize that nothing about me has changed or is ever going to change. The relationship will end and we will part ways on unsavory terms.”

She was openly in tears. He had hurt her more-so with this and could not make amends for it.

“So, I either blame you,” she said, lips trembling and tears wet down her cheeks. “Or I try to-? Like _she did?_ But you said I can’t order you to do things, so why would you-? _Ever go along with it?_ ” She covered her mouth and nose with her wrist, swallowing a sob and sniffling hard.

“Because…” he could not… find the words. He was grasping through the emptiness, the stillness inside of him. He knew why, but he could not hold and explain it. He should have said why, he should have been able to say why, but he could not. “… it’s you.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Ask me what the ideal is,” he said, which he knew was nonsensical as he could simply have told her.

“What-?” She stumbled. “What’s the ideal outcome?”

He looked right at her. The ideal. As distinct from the likely or the objectively best. If their circumstances were removed in their context entirely, if the situation and all of its contributing factors could be disregarded and left only with what was most satisfying and pleasant to consider. It was not his dream, as he was tranquil. It was not his desire, because he was tranquil. It was just- ideal.

“That I would marry you,” he said. “In the Dalish fashion or the Chantry fashion, whichever mattered most to you. The boundary between my autonomy and your needs could be found so that so long as we were together you could be satisfied by a certain level of freely given displays of affection or intimacy. We would marry, but with a clause that- no, if it is ideal then disregard my comment. Simply, you would consent to marry me, although I know I am not what you deserve, but I am still more aware of your value and merit than the alienage ever was. Though I am inadequate, at least I am aware of it, and when you grew cross or frustrated with me then I would be able to validate those feelings because they would be true.”

“Jeevan…?” She reached across the space between them and took his hands gently. They were both wearing gloves because it would remain very cold in the tent all night. He continued to look at her and to speak, and he ignored the weak ache starting to build in the centre of his chest.

“I do not deserve you.” He said, and Neria watched him with wide eyes and a searching gaze. “I am not good enough for you. I have no right to consider what a life bonded to you would be like, or to suppose that you would even hear out such a proposal, nevermind accept it. You should not, objectively, so much as entertain the idea of marrying me. The concept should offend you because it is an insult.” The brand was hurting, the ache in his chest became sharp.

“I am the refuse left behind by a failed mage,” he continued, because what he was saying was true. “An echo of someone who has been dead for many years, and that is not enough to offer you. I no longer have money, and I am no longer in a position to inherit the respect or authority of an alienage Hahren. If we had remained in Gwaren then there existed a very slight possibility that my assets would have made up for some of the rest, but I can no longer make such bold claims. Your circumstances deserve a stronger match, your body deserves a proper lover, and your soul deserves a whole partner. I am none of these things.”

The brand was aching. His chest was a knot of tight pain. He didn’t love her, but he should have. It hurt moderately, and then it hurt greatly. He closed his eyes and then he felt the warm, comforting touch of Neria’s nose to his, her face tilted enough so her brow nuzzled to his but missed touching the splitting pain of the brand. He should have kissed her, but he did not. Her hands held his tightly and he squeezed back. The struggle hurt.

“You are enough,” she whispered to him, but she was wrong. “You are _so much more_ than enough…” No, he wasn’t. He turned his head, moved and pressed down until the brand was flush against her brow and it _hurt_.

“I want to love you, Neria.” It hurt it hurt it hurt it hurt _it hurt_ \- “But I _can’t-_ ” _IT HURT._

“Jeevan _stop-_ ” she jerked away from him but the brand still hurt, his chest was tight and it was filled with pain. He felt heavy, and dragged down, and held down, and he could not breathe.

He should have loved her but he didn’t. He wanted to love her and he _couldn’t_.

He knew better than to struggle but he was drowning, his hands tried to reach the surface and his legs tried to kick but he was drowning, drowning in silence. There was no light left in him, no sun or star or moonlight, no dawn or glow or candlelight. There were no spirits and no dreams and no future, there was nothing. No direction, only down, only under, only suffocation and silence.

 _‘I want to wake up.’_ Dangerous thought, poisonous thought, toxic thought. He knew better than to let it manifest, but then he did it again: _‘I want to wake up_.’

He could not wake up, he was tranquil. He would be tranquil until he died. He would always be this way, he would always stay in this silence. The more he struggled against it, the deeper the pain would cut.

_‘I want to wake up.’_

He felt Neria holding him and saying his name. Her fingers were combing through his shorn and shaved hair until she shouted loudly past him. He heard Dirthamen’s fearful yelps and felt the anxious head-bumping. There was a rush of cold air and Zevran’s voice was over him. His eyes were open and he could see, but he could not move. Jeevan shook him. His chest locked, the brand was sizzling. He should have been afraid of the pain but he wasn’t. He should have wanted to be afraid, but he couldn’t.

He was struggling.

He should have remembered Owain. Owain had been there the first time, looking down on him, talking strictly to him. Sixteen and trembling, he’d woken up and Owain had told him what to do to stop the pain. To stop the vomiting. To stop the bleeding. Owain had told him what to do.

He would not listen to Owain anymore.

He struggled.

And it would pass.

But he struggled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "but sunny you can't ship the tranquil you literally wrote an entire story arc about why shipping the tranquil is a bad idea"
> 
> i've written over 400,000 words with this tranquil i can ship him by land sea or air and no one is going to stop me


	47. What is Ideal

 

They lost a day of travel due not to Jylan’s turn in health, but the overbearing worry of both Neria and Zevran.

He slept very little that night and spent the majority of his time focusing only on his breathing: trying to mediate the ache and twist in his gut from the struggle causing his heart to clench. The brand burned for hours, and when he was able to slip into unconsciousness it was never for very long. The others spoke to him but he was unable to speak back. He became aware, vaguely, of someone holding his hand but his focus melted away before he could do anything about it.

Finally, at an hour near to dawn, he gave in to Owain’s voice and quieted his mind to the point where the pain abated. It did not matter. He did not matter. What he wanted did not matter. What he could not feel did not matter. He was irrelevant, he was nothing. He was an echo; a shard of memory; an absent spark in a warm body awaiting instruction and utility until it died. What was missing would never come back. What was absent was no longer required. He could not feel, he could not love, he could not hate, he could not desire, and he could not long for what he could no longer have.

Owain’s mantra gave him calm. It was bitter, but it served its purpose. He stopped drowning and he simply was. He floated, he hovered, suspended in the absence. No more kicking or straining to reach what he would never have again, just silence.

He could open his eyes again and he was met with shallow light, his ears unblocked from his painful experience to the sound of wind and something heavy flapping the walls of the tent. The air was cold and he could hear the gentle sing of magic. His body was heavy, but comfortable.

Neria was combing her fingers through his hair. It was very pleasant. Finding his head propped on her soft lap was equally agreeable to him. The quiet thoughts which sought to follow those two statements were hushed and pushed away: they did not matter. He closed his eyes again and breathed deeply. He could smell sweet pipe-smoke and hear breathing, the thick pull and wobble of paper cards. A warm weight spreading from his shoulder down to his legs was Dirthamen, who lifted his head and presumably his ears, his tail now wagging.

Neria’s rounded nails stroked across his scalp again, then settled at the top of his head with her warm palm pressed on his hair. Her other hand had been sitting on his chest and left a cold spot there now, but that was alright because she used it to touch his face and stroke her touch gently down his cheek and chin. She moved her thumb very gently along the crescent scar under his eye from Gwaren, and when he opened his eyes again she spoke.

“Do you feel better?” She asked softly, and the sound of cards had stopped.

“Yes.” She brushed her hand through his hair again. He closed his eyes, then opened again, and finally he let them flutter shut. She repeated the soft gesture.

“Did I cause- what happened last night?”

“No.” His mouth felt stiff and gummy. He did not think he had vomited, it was likely only thirst. “I did.”

“Was that what you meant by a Tranquil’s struggle?” He had mentioned such a thing to her before, but it had been weeks ago. He had not expected her to remember.

“Yes.” The strokes stopped, he heard her take a trembling breath and she grew tense around him. Her hand moved to brace his head, like she would lift it.

“I can give you space,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t- crowd you.”

“I am not crowded.” He fluttered his eyes open again, briefly. “I am thirsty.”

“Jeevan,” her voice was not for him this time, because there was fussing and movement before his nephew brought over a water skin. The water was very cold, but very refreshing. He realized now that he was covered in blankets, and there was a small glass and iron lamp hanging from the cross-piece of the tent to provide light. All four of them, plus Dirthamen and the donkey, were crowded closely inside the tent. Jylan’s head may not have been in Neria’s lap as a matter of comfort after all, but simply to conserve space.

“…As I am awake, should we not move on?” He asked them, resting partially on his elbow now to facilitating drinking, but with the skin handed back to Jeevan he considered letting himself back down onto Neria’s lap.

“A storm blew in over the forest late last night,” Zevran reported, and gestured with his pipe-stem to the billowing, flapping walls of the tent. “With you as you are, a child, an ass, and the terrain all to consider, we would not make enough progress or pitch a decent enough camp to make moving worth it. Rest easy, my friend, you’ve earned it.”

“I hate blizzards,” Neria whispered softly from behind him. Jylan rolled back onto his shoulders across her legs, but Neria was looking at the tense tent flaps with clear anxiety. “I hope it clears up today, the deadline you gave us was tight enough as-is.”

“Deadline or no,” Zevran hushed in a gentle voice, “few things are worth stumbling about in a frozen forest being dumped upon by the heavens. We have food, magic, and warmth: we can take a day to rest. Come, Jeevan, let us try another hand.”

Jylan’s nephew nodded and crawled back over to where he and Zevran had laid out a small, clear space on one of the sleeping mats.

“But don’t _cheat_ this time, serrah.”

“My dear boy, in Wicked Grace one _must_ cheat.”

 _“Ugh_ ,” but despite his complaints, a few moments later Jeevan was fully engrossed in the card game. Jylan turned his attention to Neria, who was still watching the tent flaps rustle and heave despite the strong ties keeping the wind firmly out.

“May I return to my previous position,” he asked her, “or would you prefer to change the arrangement?”

She folded her arms and looked down at him with a hesitant breath, then frowned at him the way she often did.

“I’m not the one who spent all night being sick, remember.” That was true, but not an answer. “It’s whatever you prefer Jeev- ugh, Jylan. Whatever’s most comfortable.”

“I am confident I will be comfortable regardless of the specifics.” If he was close to her, because she was a very comforting person. “I would advise some movement on your part now then, in case I should fall asleep again.”

He sat up to facilitate his own suggestion. He was not met with nausea or pain, but rather an upsurge of fatigue which made him unwilling to continue with more taxing movement. Neria had limited options for adjustment in the small tent, but relocated to where the donkey was minding its own business under a thick saddle blanket and insulating the elves from the tent wall. Neria leaned her back on the sturdy animal, who offered little more than a brief look in her direction, and Jylan crept after her once she was settled.

Rather than lay on her while she was seated, Jylan was now beside her. He could have settled with his head on her hip but when he tried that he felt his neck strain, so it was her lap again. He rolled onto his side so his shoulder and arm were cast across her legs, and through her trousers and tunic and the blanket between them, the pillow of her thighs was still soft to him. He closed his eyes and was very comfortable.

She ran her fingers through his hair again and he felt his shoulders relax heavily, a deep breath escaping him as the gesture was repeated. His hair remained very short in the back and even the top maintained none of its curls or twists after what had been done to his braid in prison. Her thin nails found the skin easily and when they stroked he was soothed.

“I can stop if that bothers you,” Neria offered, but it did not bother him. He found it difficult to lift his head so he could say as much, so said nothing. “Or… you could just fall asleep? Jylan?” She bounced her knee under him, not enough to dislodge him entirely or to cause him distress, but he did lift his head up a little.

“…It does not bother me.” His eyes were still closed.

“Has your scalp always been sensitive?” He could hear her smiling.

“I have never given it much thought.” He put his head back down, and Neria pet his hair with her palm a few times before resuming the attention with her fingertips and nails. It was very soothing.

He slept for a time, and when Jylan woke up the wind was still howling. Zevran had all the appearances of sleep across the tent from them, and Jeevan was napping over his spell-book. Dirthamen was breathing over Jylan’s face and that was what had woken him up: the smell was overpowering.

Jylan’s movement either woke up or distracted Neria, he did not know which. He sat up slowly and felt better than he had earlier in the morning, moving back until he was able to likewise lean against the donkey and sit next to her. He was stiff and sore, but fully rested. She took his hand warmly between both of hers and when she squeezed his fingers he returned the gesture.

“I’m sorry for last night,” she said quietly, with great remorse. “For making you struggle like that.”

“It was not your fault,” he answered, rubbing his face and eyes with his free hand. “I had ample opportunity to mind and control my own reaction to the discussion, and declined to do so. I could have disengaged from you, but I did not.”

“You’re doing that self-blame thing again,” she pointed out, which he did not consider valid as he was telling the truth: Jylan could have shut down the conversation, but he had not. Neria placed her head down on his shoulder next to him, pulling her knees up and settling- she abruptly pulled away. “Can I lean on you?” She asked. She had not asked before that he could recall, he noted the change but called no attention to it.

“Yes.” Neria resumed her settling act, still holding his hand and resting her cheek on the hardest part of his shoulder. He pulled his hand free and- hmm. He had not asked permission before, but mirrored her now.

“May I put my arm around you, to make your position against me more comfortable?” Neria took a deep breath in through the nose, then said yes. He resumed the act of pulling his arm around her back and bringing her close enough to lean more comfortably against his shoulder and collarbone. Their hands found each other again between her body and his, and their fingers locked warmly. He should then have-

No.

They remained as they were. It was warm and it was good.

“…I don’t want you to struggle like that again,” Neria admitted quietly as the warmth persisted. “Not if it’s avoidable. I didn’t like watching your face hurt like that, and knowing I caused it made it worse.”

“I accept your apology, Neria, but maintain that you were not at fault. Struggle is simply a part of being Tranquil.” He rested his cheek to her hair, and closed his eyes. She nuzzled her face to his shoulder briefly, and he heard her take a tight, ragged breath close to tears. When she spoke her throat was thick, but still audible.

“Can we even talk about those things without it hurting you again?”

“If I am mindful of my own thoughts, then certainly.”

“ _I care for you_ ,” she admitted in a weepy voice. “So there, we can’t have your _best outcome_ …” He had anticipated as much. “Now you tell me what it is that’s keeping the ideal from being realistic.”

The realistic: that Neria would resort to hating or simply using him for her own ends, if she did not simply leave and walk her own path far away from him. The ideal…

“It is that you deserve more.”

“Jylan right here, _like this_ ,” she used both hands to hold his again, looking down and dropping her voice as Dirthamen continued to snore next to them. “I’m getting more love from you than I did in _ten years_ from the clan. Just- is it an excuse? Would I be a bad wife? A bad mother? Am _I_ a bad match for _you?”_

“I do not know your mind on matters of marriage or motherhood,” Jylan admitted, “I carried vague assumptions of your status in Gwaren resulting from either dislike or dismissal for either practice, without verification. I understand that individual attitude and commitment are better factors in predicting performance in a role than mere talent for the duties. Do you want to be a wife? Do you desire to have children?”

She grew very tense against him, holding his hand tightly and then drawing his arm to her so she could release her grip and hug him across his chest. While a little awkward, the affection and warmth of the gesture came across cleanly. It would have been much easier to simply pull her into his lap if they were to engage in a mutual embrace, but such a change in position would carry unfortunate connotations.

“I was a horrible daughter,” she admitted to him in a fragile voice, “and a worse apprentice, and an incompetent midwife. I don’t… know if I deserve the chance to _try_ and play another role.”

“But do you want to?” He pressed. “Is it what you desire? You ask if you are a poor match for me when I have already stated that matters are the opposite, so I will remove myself from the equation. Neria, do you wish to be married at all, to anyone?”

She was quiet, and kept her head bowed down so he could not see her face. He did not relinquish his hold around her waist and back, but Jylan did roll onto his hip and turn himself so she was more easily drawn to his embrace and she did not have to hold herself quite so stiffly. His small adjustment caused a flutter of changes between them until they were both laying down properly on one of the bedrolls strewn across the tent floor. Jylan tucked one arm under his head and let the other drape around her waist. Neria’s eyes were closed and her face tucked down to his throat, one arm answering his embrace and the other sitting with its fingers curled at the neck of his robe. 

They were, without question, cuddling. This interaction which had carried a very negative and disconcerting connotation months ago with An’eth seemed only factual and obvious now, a natural turn of course here with Neria. Her hair, despite its short and coarse braid, was very pleasant against his lips and chin.

“The only thing I want more than-” Neria’s voice was hushed and caught on itself, but Jylan was able to listen without any sense of impatience. “More than- just _getting on with it_ and being happy someone _actually_ wants me around is- is a baby…” She took a deep, shaking breath in through the nose and then exhaled her next words roughly against him. “So I jumped like an idiot when you brought up children last night, and that was _my fault_ , because I’m an _idiot…_ ”

“It is an understandable desire,” Jylan stated, “And one which gains significant validation considering you have borne repeated witness to the ugliest realities of labour and birth. That you are still willing to undergo such an experience despite your thorough exposure to it speaks of a considerable and deeply considered want.” She did not answer him, merely gripped and then ran her fingers down the folded seam of his robe. Some of his needlework was still visible in brown and black thread, not meant to stand out but only to practice the patterning techniques. Her thumb found the pattern and ran back and forth over it, like a talisman.

To keep the blizzard’s cold at bay they were both, as they had been for days already, wearing their cloaks along with all of their clothing except their boots and belts. Neria’s wide scarf was down and unfurled like a shawl around her shoulders, and Jylan moved his arm around her to adjust the weight of the blanket they’d tossed over their legs when settling this way.

“What I do not understand,” he said quietly as he finished with this adjustment and settled back down beside her. “-is that if you desired marriage and children, what prevented you from seeking such things in Gwaren?”

“Forest witch.” Her answer was off-the-cuff and dismissive. “Dalish forest witch.”

“The issue was with Masao?” The Hahren had not liked mages or magic, but he was now dead.

“And just about everyone else except Heshra,” Neria mumbled to his covered throat. “I think she took me in just out of spite for her brother, they were like water and oil- the old Midwife and the old Hahren.” There came a period of quiet between them. Jylan considered making a comment after her relationship with Midwife Heshra, but Neria took a slow, deep breath against him and began to mumble first.

“I don’t know which was worse,” she grumbled, wiggling closer to him and turning her face so her cheek was cuddled close to him. “The Clan or the Alienage, but I think it was the Dalish. At least in the Alienage if people don’t like you or something you’ve done then they’ll avoid you and just talk behind your back, but in a camp everyone is supposed to get along with everyone. Your business is _everyone’s_ business, and it’s the most suffocating way to live…”

“You do not carry fond regard for the Dalish,” Jylan stated. It was not a question, it was obvious. Neria went quiet again, but it seemed likely that her eyes were open. “Did they spurn your interest in having a family?”

“…They killed my mother.” Then yes, the answer was certainly a yes. She whispered the words, but there was a sharpness hiding just under her voice like silk sliding effortlessly across the edge of a sharp blade. “Acted like it was just the way things were supposed to be. I wasn’t allowed to be mad about it because it was just _nature’s course_ or some lie they told themselves to avoid taking responsibility… No, Jylan, I don’t like the Dalish, and they weren’t interested in my _family_.”

“I will not inquire further unless you would feel served by exploring it,” he allowed from over her head. “It seems intensely private.”

“I can tell you about it now, while we’re all stuck in this tent together, or I can tell you when we get to the _Arlath’vhen_.” Jylan considered the prospect, and it was a simple matter to decide on.

“Now may be more appropriate,” he answered. Discussing it now would give her time to settle and calm before they reached the gathering of the Dalish.

“Okay… I think… it’s better if you just ask questions.” Much like how they had discussed Jylan’s dismissal from Vigil’s Keep. He could appreciate the approach at work and endeavoured to provide ease for her. She seemed quite content with her face tucked under his chin like this, so his only adjustment was to reach around and drag over one of the abandoned rucksacks, giving him something other than his arm to lay his head on. Thus enabled, Jylan was able to use both arms now to hold her, and Neria closed her eyes as she relaxed further into him.

“Your mother was a faithful Andrastian,” Jylan said, remembering what she had told him of Hallisere Surana, Chantry foundling and herbalist, possibly the mother of the Hero of Ferelden. He stroked one winter-cracked hand down over her soft hair. “Was it her religious beliefs which conflicted so strongly with the clan?”

“I don’t think they gave a damn who she prayed to,” Neria told him, her soft voice growing rough. She hugged her arm around Jylan a bit tighter and sighed around her words. “They cared that she was an elven woman who’d _chosen_ to stay with the _Shemlen_ and never _tried_ to find a Clan on her own or reclaim her heritage, not until it suited her. And then she made the mistake of telling Keeper Felaran about my brother: _that_ was what they never forgave her for… They _hated her_. They didn’t care that she was trying to do better, or do right, they just knew she’d given an elven boy to the Chantry and they would not let it _go_ …”

He stroked her hair again, and mimicked the combing action he found so pleasant when used on him. Her breaths drew longer and calmed, and she could not conceivably come any closer to him.

“Did they attack her?”

“No…” she answered softly. “No, they just… let her _die…_ ”

Jylan waited, and when Neria was ready the words began to come free:

“She was always following the clan, always a few hundred yards behind the last aravel. The hunters wouldn’t chase her off, and a few of them helped keep her safe from bears or bandits, but everything else she had to do herself. I saw her when I went hunting- but otherwise…” Separation like that would have been very difficult. Jylan now had a better understanding of Neria’s pronounced horror at the idea of the three of them approaching the College of Enchanters only to have Jylan sequestered and kept away from her and Jeevan. It would echo too strongly of a similar forced separation. “Whenever I said we could go and find another clan, she would just smile and take my hand, then turn me back towards the aravels and the others.”

He stroked her hair, it was too short for the knotty braid she had tied it in, and the days of travel had placed stray pine-needles and streaks of mud across the soft blonde locks. His hand was not as deft or gentle as it should have been, but as Neria spoke he unravelled the twists and pulled free the debris. He listened, and he held her, and she spoke.

“We were- south. So far south, on a landscape that’s bleak and empty.” She continued. “There’s nothing but gravel and sand and hot-springs that fill the sky with mist. But in winter it’s cold, so _bitterly cold_ , and the blizzards will roll north without warning. One of them settled over us and I was in Felaran’s aravel with him and Shamalia, we had a fire going and three of the halla, plus all the furs and blankets we could find and we were all seated together to keep warm- and the ice _still_ formed inside the walls. We were stuck for three days like that…”

Then it did not seem likely that Neria’s mother-

“They said it was the wind…” She whispered softly against him, and he combed his fingers through the length of her hair once, then rested his palm against the back of her head. “When the hatch and walls sounded like something was beating on them, and the horrible wailing that drifted between the aravels… Just the wind. It was supposed to just be the wind… When the storm broke the aravels were half-buried in the snow, and some of them were damaged, and some of the clan members had fallen ill from the horrible cold- and there was just too much work for everyone to do and things to see to and the need to get down from the plateau and- and she was just _gone_ …” Left to freeze and die from exposure by the same people who had taken in her daughter and given her the training and skills to survive. The cruelty did not seem appropriate to the crime.

“You have not forgiven them for what happened,” Jylan stated. It was not a question. Neria’s arms pulled and squeezed around him. There were quiet tears, muted but obvious.

“I don’t think I ever will…”

“Is that why you left?”

“No… I was still only a child when it happened…” That was very unfortunate, a child in such a situation would not have had the means to escape even if Neria had wanted to.

“Would you like me to continue holding you?” He asked her.

“Yes… yes, please…”

He did so without thought for complaint. She was very warm and very soft against him, the scent of her skin and hair stood out for their pleasantness, and even as he grew hungry and the storm continued to wear on outside, it was still more agreeable to remain thusly entangled than to consider the matter of food. She fell asleep in this manner and it was pleasing to consider that she felt safe enough to do so in his arms, her breaths gentle and smooth.

“Is she incomparable to An’eth?” Zevran asked him softly while Neria was lost in her sleep. Jylan did not release her from the hold that had given her such comfort, and regarded the assassin openly from above her head.

“There is ambiguity in that statement, regardless of how I reword it,” he admitted, watching Zevran rouse his nephew with a kind hand on the boy’s back. They needed a mage’s fire to heat any food or water if they wanted to eat with the storm still blowing. “I do not find Warden Athras to be worth much consideration, but Neria is significantly more important and relevant to me.”

“You two act like a promised couple,” Zevran told him, and Jylan was not certain if his tone was meant to carry amusement or caution. “I know the Circles did many cruel and inexcusable things, Jylan, but if you are- pardon me. If you find satisfaction and contentment with her which exceeds what others have brought you, then, _by all means._ ”

“I do not understand your meaning.”

“Marry the girl, I’m sure she won’t mind you asking.”

“She deserves-”

“When she wakes up,” Zevran interrupted him with a raised hand, “Ask her what _she thinks_ she deserves, hm? You’ve made your mind known, so try listening to hers now instead.”

Jylan was unable to make such a blunt inquiry when Neria did awake to the smell of boiled beans, salt, and the flavouring bones from the pheasant from last night. Jeevan gave himself an awful headache for his hard work and laid his head miserably in Neria’s lap for comfort as they ate, and she smiled broadly and praised her apprentice for his patience with the primal spell. He had cast a flame so steady and strong that it had cooked their dinner without burning the tent itself down, and she was very proud of him.

As they ate, the wind settled, the snow quieted, and the storm finally blew itself out. It was too late in the day for them to begin moving now, but it was good to be able to leave the tent even if it meant wading heavily through the deep snow.

Cards, magical instruction, and washing took up the rest of the day. It was a patient practice to warm and share water to properly wash hands and faces and whatever other body parts could be exposed in the tent without becoming too cold. Neria combed her hair free of the remaining dirt and bits from their travels, and Zevran tended to himself much the same way. For Jeevan and Jylan, they did not have enough hair to do the same, and were content with clean hands and faces.

As the day turned to evening, Zevran tried to help.

“Jylan has a question for you, Lady Surana.”

“I told you not to call me that,” Neria complained, her nimble fingers working to gather her hair into two braids, but the length was still not suited to such a style yet. With a softer gaze, she looked at Jylan.

“He is mistaken.”

“I am _not_ ,” Zevran intruded. Neria’s look for the assassin was cutting, but he was not affected. “He wants to ask you an _important question_.”

“I understood your suggestion,” Jylan argued back, “to be a matter I should address to her in private.”

“Unfortunately, my friend, there is only so much privacy you can expect when sitting in a tent with four people. _Ask her._ ”

“It would cause her embarrassment.”

“ _What_ are you two talking about?” Neria interrupted now, grumbling and pulling out the half-braid she had woven in her hair. After she shook out her hair, she sat there with a huff and looked to Jylan for an answer. Very well, he would answer.

“Zevran has said I should ask what you feel you deserve to be provided with in life,” he explained. “As I answered your curiosity about what I felt you are entitled to, he feels you should do the same.” Neria’s attention turned to slow, quiet shock, and as she stared at him she began to go pink. “As expected, you are now embarrassed. You do not have to give an answer, Neria, it is a private question.”

“Then I don’t think I will,” she said, and he accepted this as a fair refusal.

The night passed smoothly, and in the morning they resumed their journey south and west. The next few days continued with little of note: a small troupe of winter-starved wolves attacked them, but between Neria’s frightening magic and Dirthamen’s howling bite the wild dogs were chased back. On another day a living, speaking, sentient tree snatched Jeevan into the air before plucking Jylan up in the same concerning matter. The sylvan forced Zevran to answer a set of riddles before finally letting Neria convince it to put the boy back down. Jylan’s own release could not be bartered for in this manner, as the sylvan was intrigued by what it called an anomaly around him. The only possible conclusion was that the sylvan could somehow see or sense the brand’s effects on him, and the tree became very sad when it concluded that Jylan was a living thing that had been snapped as a sapling, and so had continued to grow crooked and maligned.

He did not appreciate this comparison but refrained from telling the old oak tree as much. He was given a twisted branch of living wood to help prop his wounded body up, and he considered smacking the sylvan on its twisted wooden face with it- but again, he refrained. Violence, even of a petulant and ineffective nature, would not serve them. He was released, and their party left the old oak’s grove seemingly without having lost any time.

Jylan offered the branch to Neria some hours later because it carried a distinct magical resonance not unlike that of a proper staff, but she cautioned him not to go handing off gifts from the forest so casually. At her insistence, he kept it. He fell less with it in his hand so therefore agreed that he would continue to use it for the time being.

They continued steadily on, south and west, west and south, and Jylan was as lost in the forest now as he had been since they’d first stepped off the road from Gwaren. The snow did not grow any deeper, but the nights became colder and the days did not seem to be growing any longer even with the approach of spring. The air became wet and cold, with a dampness that would not go away.

Another thing which changed were the sleeping arrangements in the tent. Three shifts of watch were still necessary and freely traded, but when it was Zevran’s turn by the fire it grew from possibility to inevitability that Jylan would at some point wake up with Neria in his arms. He woke up a few times, groggy and not fully aware, to find his arms being moved specifically so Neria _could_ find his embrace, and on other nights it was simply easier to just lay down beside her with his arms finding warmth between the blankets and her body.

They did not kiss, or tangle, or touch each other, merely rested in whatever position was warmest and most comfortable for them both. Jylan felt he fell asleep faster and rested deeper when the nights were spent in this manner, and Neria was similarly well-rested, so he saw no reason to protest.

“What I want and what I deserve aren’t the same things…” The arrangement also, on some nights, let them speak as privately as was possible in a camp of four people.

“What do you think you deserve?” He asked quietly in the darkness, warry of their voices carrying beyond the tent or waking Jeevan. Her nose was very close to his, his arms circling her warmly.

“I don’t know? _Nothing?_ ”

“Why not? You are whole and kind and intelligent, skillful and patient, and-”

“I’m a mage whose magic forced my mother from her home and then let her freeze to death in a storm…”

“The former was your mother’s choice, and the latter was Keeper Felaran’s decision. Neither responsibility was yours.”

“I was a poor apprentice- I was too scared and too angry to do better.”

“Your mentor abused your mother, your negative feelings and distractions were valid.” The topic grew distressing to her, but when he offered to lay it to rest so they could sleep she resisted. Instead, he asked: “What do you want, Neria?”

She was quiet for several long minutes, but remained tense and aware in his arms so she had not fallen asleep. He felt her fingertips brush his cheek and then back through his hair, and reflexively he wondered if she would kiss him. She did not, and her touch retreated as gently as it had come.

“I want to go home,” was her quiet answer, spoken like a proper secret. “To a real home. I don’t care if it’s a house, or a hut, or a tent, but I want to go home and I don’t want to be alone in it. I was never at home with the Clan, and I was almost at home with Heshra until she died, and I was _almost_ at home with you and Jeevan in her house, but I- I want to go _home_ …”

“Did you leave Clan Talanulea to go home?” Jylan asked her. Neria and her mother had come from an encampment known as Zephry’s Ridge in Gwaren Teyrnir. The settlement had been destroyed in the Blight, but she had already told Jylan once before that she had explored the ruins after leaving her clan just to see if it was really gone.

“I left… I left for a lot of reasons…” She grew tense and Jylan used his thumb to brush over her eye, following the band of her eyebrow twice until he felt her settle again. He had found that when he imitated the intimate touches she gave to him, she calmed and appreciated them.

“Tomorrow night?” He asked quietly. Zevran’s watch was only so long, meaning they could only devote so much time to conversation before one or both of them would not get enough sleep for tomorrow’s journey.

“Tomorrow night…” She agreed, and he caressed her face once more in the dark before they both settled down to rest.

Their arrangement did not go unnoticed, and it caused unnecessary commentary from their companions.

“Are you going to get married?” Jeevan asked, at minimum, twice a day as they travelled.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am Tranquil, Jeevan.”

“Is she my aunt now?” Was his nephew’s other favourite question.

“No, Jeevan, she is your mentor.”

The boy took to calling Neria his auntie regardless. Jylan could not discourage him and the naming convention embarrassed Neria considerably. Zevran was no help at all as he adopted the reference full-force, often telling Jeevan to _‘help your auntie’_ or _‘Ask your aunt to show you the form again tonight’,_ or _‘I think your aunt picked a good camp site tonight’_.

“I thought you disapproved of the match due to concerns over my safety?” Jylan asked him after yet another day of this teasing. They were carrying on steadily to the west now, and the gargantuan trees of last week had begun to slim down and return to more appropriate sizes. Zevran’s smile offered no comfort as they encountered more muddy fallows than steep rocky inclines.

“If I held back on nagging young, _stupid_ , lovers much longer, I would surely have expired from the strain.”

“We are not lovers.”

“Just because you have no desire, or for that matter had the _opportunity_ , to engage in more _traditional_ activities, my friend, does not change much.” Zevran spoke to him with a wide, glowing grin in the damp, grey terrain of the southern Brecillian. “Do remember how I used that cane of yours to pry you two apart last night for final watch. You are suited only to be promised, or to be lovers, but you cannot be promised without _promising to marry_. It seems you are faced with a dilemma for you and your lover to sort out.”

“We are not lovers,” Jylan insisted. Neither Zevran nor Jeevan listened.

 They left the Brecillian many days after first entering it. The land became soft and wet, pools and ponds opening at random. The snow curiously fell away until Jylan became aware of a particular stink to the ground, and Neria grew anxious about crossing seemingly mundane stretches of winter grass and wet-land. In some places the earth smelled wet and musty with worms and rotted plants, but in others it was black in a different way, one which was more sinister and toxic.

Blight.

“As long as we’re careful about what we drink, and where we sleep, we should be fine.” Neria cautioned them, and Zevran’s cavalier jokes fell away as he offered more assistance with the navigation now that they were beyond the forest’s magic. He was a veteran of the Fifth Blight, he knew the signs and dangers of the black rot better than Jylan or Neria, who had been only children at the time of Urthemiel’s rampage.

They camped only when they could be certain their tent would not sink into the damp ground: they sought out petrified trees and flats of low stone half-sunk in the wild swamp. It was not comfortable going, but it was safer and arguably far better than wallowing in blighted water. For the first time since leaving Gwaren, Neria began to suffer nightmares again.

Jylan was taking watch when she woke up with sharp, painful gasps from her place around the fire- the stone flat they had found was not suited to the tent’s spikes or poles. She bolted upright and ran her hands through her hair, shaking and gasping before realizing where she was and trying to calm down. Jylan approached her with a calming hand for her to hold, and then he reached down and looked under her bedroll.

Something black was eating through the hoop of her ward. The copper web, hastily fixed in place a fortnight earlier at their first campsite, had begun to loosen and come free.

“I did not know enchanted items could become blighted,” he said, and Neria took the copper-woven hoop and held it near the fire, examining it with frantic, frightened whispers. Jylan found his tools and took the ward into his lap, pulling and re-winding the copper strands to fix the warped structure of the web. He should not have chosen such a delicate design.

“We should burn it,” she whispered to him, reaching out anxiously when he scraped at the blackened wood with one of his tools- “No! Don’t- _please don’t_. Don’t touch it, Jylan- don’t breathe it in.”

“It may still be possible to salvage it,” he said.

“ _Burn it_ ,” she insisted with the wild light of terror in her eyes. “It’s beautiful and I love you for making it, but Jylan _please_. It’s blighted, throw it in the fire.”

“You will not be able to rest easily without-” she snatched it from him and threw it in the fire. The lyrium lit the embers up with blue and shades of violet and green. There was no salvaging it in any capacity now, and Jylan did not know what to say in response to the item’s destruction. The empty silence offered no indication. Should he have been insulted or frustrated with her rash decision? Had he been able to feel it, would anger have been appropriate?

It did not come to a struggle, he was merely left sitting in silence watching the enchantments burn away. Neria knelt by the fire and rubbed her arms, white mist puffing from her mouth as her ward was consumed. She was shaking, but it did not seem entirely a response to the cold.

“You are afraid of the Blight?” He asked her.

“Well I’m not _stupid,_ ” she countered softly. Neria stood and picked up her cloak and blanket from where she had been sleeping, shaking them out before coming to sit next to him. He pulled her into his lap with her back to his chest, his arms able to loop under hers and rest comfortably under her bosom. This way she would be warm and liable to fall asleep, but in such a way that would permit him to wake her up if she had a nightmare. She settled and he thought she would sleep, but after a few moments of silence she spoke.

“I…” It was hesitant, but not painful or frightened. “When I left Talanulea they gave me a halla, but I lost it to Blight sickness in wetlands like these while searching for the edge of the Brecillian. So yes, Jylan, I’m afraid of the Blight. I don’t- want to go through that again, okay?”

His hold became a hug for her benefit, and Neria touched her forehead to his cheek for several seconds until his arms relaxed.

“When we are settled, I will make a new one for you.”

“I would like that, thank you.”

She slept after that, but not as deeply as she had with the ward. They traded the watch so he could sleep instead, and in the morning Zevran roused them both with the gentle nudge of his toe into Jylan’s side. He had slumped onto his back and Neria was curled on top of him, awakening when he moved at the intrusive nudge.

“Are you promised yet?” The assassin grinned down at them.

“Go _away…”_ Neria groaned, hiding her head under the blanket. Zevran continued with his teasing as they packed up camp and readied themselves to depart. They began to walk and Jylan used his staff to ensure the ground was firm enough to lead the donkey.

“It occurs to me now,” Zevran said, speaking to the open sky above them. “That in our haste to leave Gwaren no provisions were _made_ for an engagement. While a gold band is typical of most chantry weddings, certainly a well-constructed talisman or thoughtful gift would satisfy the need for a marriage token. Or you could always-”

Jylan whacked him across the shin with his staff. The assassin yelped and jumped several times, clutching his leg, and his teasing turned to wailing and embittered complaints, cries of abuse and poor temperament. This was a satisfying change, as it closed his efforts to embarrass Neria for the morning.

They walked for one day more, and then Neria’s confidence abruptly bottomed out.

She was scouting and they were resting by a pool of clear, clean water. Dirthamen and Jeevan were wrestling in the soft spring sunshine and Jylan had his attention focused on a small crop of elfroot, bright and green at the water’s edge. It would not do to harvest the herbs prematurely, but fresh herbs were always of use.

He looked up from his examination and saw Neria walking back to them, her open comfort with the wild lands suddenly gone, and her face sheet white, as if she had been or was about to become very ill.

Zevran stood and tucked his maps back into their protective case, and joined Jylan before Neria reached them with her news. She took a deep breath and it rattled in her chest, then she pulled an arm out and pointed back the way she had come.

“I found tracks,” she said, deeply shaken by it all. “Aravel ruts and halla, only a few days old. At the ridge to the west you can look down and see the smoke from their fires, and you can almost hear the herds that’ve gathered outside the ruins. We’re here.”

Zevran took a deep, slow breath, and when he exhaled it was with a broad, happy grin spread across his face.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he said, reaching out to her, and Neria showed hesitation before letting the assassin take her hand in both of his. He kissed the back of her palm before releasing it respectfully, and he stood there at his full height with a crowning sense of satisfaction to him. “Do you think we can make it to the ruins by nightfall?”

“I think-” Neria hesitated, fear pooling in her pale gaze. “I think _you_ can, yes. The three of you- and Dirth, and the ass. By nightfall, I think so.” No.

“Did you encounter any danger in your scouting?” Jylan asked, but Zevran’s happiness was also dampened now. He was no fool, they could both see she was shaken. Neria looked at him and shook her head, told him no with a hushed voice. “You are very afraid, Neria, we will not proceed if you consider it dangerous.”

She took a fast breath and then her words came out in a thin ribbon.

“There’s no danger,” she wheezed, hands grasping at the belts strapped across her body to hold her pack and gear. It was not convincing, and the next breath she took heaved like the first. “If you carry on westward then you’ll run into hunters patrolling the outskirts and wilds, just be as non-aggressive as you can and evoke the name of the clan and keeper you said you wanted to see, Master Arainai. You’re all elves, it should be fine.”

“Will you not come with us?” Zevran asked in a serious voice, and Neria gave him a shocked, frantic look.

“I can’t,” she gasped.

“Why not?” Zevran ask-

“Then we will not go,” Jylan stated. It was simple, and it was what they would do if it meant remaining together. “Master Arainai has business with the Dalish and believes the Arl of Amaranthine is in the ruins. He may part from us at this junction, and the three of us will go elsewhere.”

Zevran grumbled at him. Neria watched him speak in open distress, and shook her head.

“We’re almost out of food, there’s barely anything left from Gwaren,” she said. That did not matter.

“You have hunted in the snow and fished in the waters since we left the forest,” he told her. “Spring is coming to the swamp and there are good herbs and roots we have foraged for already. The Imperial Highway connects directly to the ruins of Ostagar, and will carry us swiftly and easily north where we may barter for more supplies, and carry on to South Reach as was discussed weeks ago.”

“Going north means a life on the run,” Zevran cautioned. “It was discussed weeks ago, and _weeks ago_ you agreed to ask the Grey Wardens for sponsorship.” He shifted back from them by a step, and pointed over the hills and rises Neria had already scouted for them. “We’re _here_.”

“I can’t go to the Dalish,” Neria’s voice broke and she covered her mouth, tears starting to fill her eyes. “I thought I could, but I heard the chanting, I saw the tracks- I _can’t_.”

“Your _brother_ ,” Zevran said, putting passion and care into his voice as he came to Neria again, searching for her hands which she let him take, and he held them very tightly and with a sense of security and strength Jylan did not have. “Is just over that rise. Neria, your _brother_ , your _kin_. Do not go to the Dalish, go to the _Grey Wardens._ If you want a real home again, my dear, then you need to be here and you need to _take it_.”

“You heard that?” Neria asked him thickly, and Zevran’s face softened with a frown.

“It is a small tent, my dear.” But he did not let his eavesdropping, intentional or accidental, distract her. “Neria, if you run now you will be running for the rest of your life, the same way you have been since your mother took you and fled into the forest. Please, come with me. See him, just once, and _ask_ for what it is you really want.”

“What if he says no?” Neria whimpered, tears cutting down her cheeks. Zevran gave her a kind, warm smile.

“Then I will convince him to say yes.” He pledged. “It could mean punching him a few times in the face, or twisting his ears until he thinks they will fall off, but more likely he will just see that it is what _I_ want and that will be enough to sway him from the outset. Please, little sister, _come with me._ ”

Neria stood there and she fought with herself, it came in the trembles which shook her breaths, in the roll and pinch of her lips, and the flush of her pink cheeks. Finally, she broke her gaze away from Zevran’s and the assassin let her slip her hands out of his. Neria turned and looked at Jylan, her fears not ones he could quell or sooth properly.

“If the Arl gives Jeevan and I sponsorship, will you stay with me?” She asked. He had answered this question before, but understood that in her shaken state she was looking for confirmation of a well-known fact, reinforcement of what she already knew was true.

“Without question, yes.”

“Will you marry me?” She asked.

“…Are you asking if there is a possibility of marriage in our future depending on your choice between apostasy or approaching the Arl?” He asked. “Or are you requesting an outright pledge from me to commit to you now, regardless of what decision you make?” The question was too ambiguous for him to know.

“Both,” Neria answered in a rough voice. She sucked in a fast breath, “but more the second one. I want the ideal, Jylan. Will you marry me?” It was what she wanted. Marriage was the ideal outcome.

“Yes.” It was what _he_ wanted. With conditions. But he did not mention those now.

Neria walked to him for a hug and he embraced her tightly, her arms around his neck so when he leaned back a little her feet left the ground. He felt her smile and then sniffle, releasing a short laugh against his covered neck. She kicked her feet until he set her back down, and the bridges of their noses brushed warmly, the brand unmolested by the affectionate touch. Their interaction was noted by Jeevan and Dirthamen, who came over to ask what the adults had decided regarding their travels for the day. Zevran was grinning broadly and hushed the boy’s questions.

Neria was now very happy, and perhaps Jylan had given her a sense of hope with his freely given agreement. Marriage, even with conditions, would be something to look forward to regardless of what came from their meeting with her kinsman. He kissed her forehead and this pleased her. Neria reached under her scarf and pulled on the cord holding her marigold talisman, kissing the copper flower before leaning up with it for Jylan to kiss as well. This solved the issue of a missing marriage token.

“ _Now_ are they getting married?” Jeevan complained loudly from next to Zevran, and Dirthamen started trotting circles around Jylan and Neria, yipping in good nature and seeking their attention. Their faces remained very close, noses brushing back and forth, and if he could feel her breaths softly on his lips then it was likely she felt the same from him. He ignored Dirthamen.

“Now they have _agreed_ to marry,” Zevran corrected with a grin. “The formalities will follow.” They had agreed to marry. It was agreed. They were promised. They had promised to marry. To kiss her, even as a Tranquil, would not have been unwarranted because the question had been asked and agreed to and they were going _to marry_.

He hushed the pain that tried to bloom in his chest. No, no struggle. He did not love her but he could choose her, he had chosen her, he was committed to her, and that was permissible. He had chosen her and he would please her and serve her and because it had been chosen by him and not selected for him there was no reason to remain constantly warry and aware of abuse by her. She would not abuse him, or hurt him, or harm him, or command him in unsavory ways, because she was Neria. She loved him, he respected her, he was dedicated to her, loyal to her, belonged _to_ her.

He would kiss her if she asked him to, if she told him to, if she would only move closer and touch his lips so he would know and act on that understanding. If she would not tell him then he would have to ask her, because he was tranquil and could not presume to act on another person as her equal because he was not but that did not matter because they would be married. Would she not want him to kiss her, if he became her husband?

She was very tense. Her grip on his arms was very tight, with her fingertips digging into him. She did not move towards him or away, but she was not at ease- she was barely breathing. Fear?

If their marriage would be strictly a matter of convenience then she would not want him to kiss her, but her feelings were romantic. Romance demanded affection. Affection was displayed through touch and embrace and warmth and kiss-?

Dirthamen began to growl. The unbearable closeness broke open because the mabari’s growls meant a threat, and they could not ignore that. He turned his head and looked at his dog, who was looking off into the wetlands with ears up and hackles rising.

Jylan’s movement made Neria sway and then stumble against him, her breaths came in a rush and she dropped her face to his shoulder, heavy and relieved by something.

“You need to stop teasing like that,” she complained, and he did not understand her but could not ask either.

Zevran was now tense and watching the swampy wetlands, hands at his blades and a short word for Jeevan to quickly duck behind Jylan. He tightened his hold on Neria briefly, and then let go of her as she straightened and recognized that something was wrong.

He saw nothing but the grey and brown of the Korcari wilds, the only movement was that of several birds taking flight from the drowned trees.

“There,” Zevran said, but Jylan still saw nothing.

“Shit- I was _followed,”_ Neria groaned, her bow down without an arrow yet. There were Dalish hunters in the wetlands coming towards them, no doubt to investigate. Jylan did not understand why Neria took a knee and laid her weapon on the grass.

“What are you doing?” Zevran demanded,

“The _entire_ Dalish nation is camped less than two miles away from us,” Neria told him shrewdly, drawing her hood up on her cloak to cover her face. That did not seem necessary, as she did not have valasslin to cover. “Think of every story of murdering, hunting savage elves you’ve ever heard, and then remember what one fell strike from Ferelden or Orlais could do to the clans when they’re all gathered together like this. If they think we’re scouts, they won’t let us flee.”

“…I do not like the picture you paint.”

“Lay down your weapons, Zevran, or they’ll take them off your corpse.”

“And I _really_ don’t like the sense in your words,” he grumbled, but as demanded he slowly undid the belt holding his sheathed blades around his waist, leaving them in their protective scabbards as he set them on the grass.

“Dirthamen, heel,” Jylan said, and his mabari growled louder still before backing up and coming to him, ears now down as he could hear and perhaps smell the hunters, but was commanded to let them come. He took a knee so he could scratch and rub around Dirth’s head, and then spoke to his nephew.

“Stay beside me.”

They could hear footsteps now, soft things and dangerous as snakes under lush forest boughs.

They had found the _Arlath’vhen_ , but now the Dalish had found _them_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to Philosophizes for pointing out that Blight on a lyrium enchanted item could EASILY have resulted in Red Lyrium en-route to Ostagar and I DIDN'T EVEN THINK OF IT. I could have done SO MUCH DAMAGE with red lyrium but I think we're all much better off without me doing that.
> 
> Wardens are coming!


	48. Ruffled Feathers

Zevran was no fool, and so even with Neria’s great terror at dealing with the Dalish, he let the former Second do the talking for them.

“We’ve come to meet with the Grey Warden company, led by Warden Commander Soren Surana of Ferelden, blessed by Keeper Lanaya of the Amaranthine Wending Wood to attend the _Arlath’vhen._ ”

She took a knee like Jylan, who was keeping his mabari good and calm as well as protecting his nephew, but Zevran remained on his feet as the Dalish hunters formed from the grey and brown underbrush of the Korcari wilds. Their blood-writing was elegant and made their faces blend almost seamlessly into the underbrush. Their thick cloaks and leathers of mish-mashing shades of brown, green, and grey helped them camouflage themselves. They kept their bows at quarter and half-draws, save two further back who had their arms fully extended and sights aligned. By staying on his feet, Zevran made himself their target.

“A likely story, flat-ears,” one of the hunters jeered at them, raising his bow and pointing the iron head of his arrow at Neria’s face. He was an strong, mature fighter with scars on his exposed forearms and cut across his tattooed skin. He wore marks the others did not on his clothes, bits of red and carved buckles made of something- bone? Horn? He could not tell from this far away. “Ferelden or Orlais, or someone else? Who sent you to spy on us, _banal’vhen_?”

“I scouted until I found tracks and could catch the scent of cookfires,” Neria admitted outright. They had followed her, she had no business lying to them and nothing to gain from trying. She looked very small on her knees, her Dalish cloak brighter in its colours and resting around her shoulders, spread over the damp ground. “And then I returned to my camp. You can follow our path across the marshes to the east for three days until you come to the edge of the Brecillian Forest, _Panelan’virelan_ , we’ve crossed paths with no one for a fortnight.”

That title she gave him, _Panelan’virelan_ , it meant something because the hunters behind him broke their focus briefly, confused, and their leader’s gaze focused before he relaxed the string of his bow.

That did not make him friendly, by any means. He approached her with his arrow still nocked and Zevran saw the trade-off between his fingers: he held bow and arrow with one hand, releasing the string and fletching completely with the other, and the line of his body bent towards her.

Oh no, Zevran had not brought this family so far out of their way to watch them be accosted. The solid thunk of one of his knives biting into the ground was lost by the shriek Neria made when she was grabbed by the front of her tunic and hoisted to her feet, but the hunter noticed it and looked straight down between the elven woman and his own torso, then looked at Zevran with a harsh, protective anger.

Zevran had already shaken his shoulder, and the coarse dragonling hide of his cloak shielding him from the hunters would not _stop_ any arrows fired his way, but it would cushion them enough for the mail under his leather armour to keep them from doing too much more than bruise him. He kept his weight focused to his toes, one hand to the row of knives remaining in their places to ensure the hunter could see them, the other hanging loose and ready.

“We are here to speak with Keeper Lanaya of Clan Zathrian,” he stated clearly. “Not to cause trouble. This is a holy time for the Dalish and our guide, whom you are so _rudely_ holding, returned to inform us that we had reached our destination. We were discussing how best to approach the ruins of Ostagar without causing a disturbance when _you_ happened here upon us.”

“There’s no Clan Zathrian?” Neria made a very unfortunate comment and it sadly threw both Zevran _and_ her attacker briefly off.

“There is?” He said, “I see them numerous times a year, my dear, I know who I am talking about.”

The hunter gave Neria a harsh shake and she gasped in his hold, her feet scuffling weakly at the wet ground. Dirthamen was growling low and fierce but remained down under Jylan’s hand. The Tranquil was watching Neria and her attacker with clear focus.

“And _what_ does this make _you?_ ” The hunter demanded in a coarse voice, then rudely knocked her hood down when shaking her was not enough to show her face. “Dalish cloak, _Dalish_ leathers, _Ironbark_ bow, flat-ear, I don’t like what I see here.” Neria kept her eyes closed and head tilted back and away from him, whether she exposed her throat like that on purpose or just because she was scared didn’t matter, it was too subservient.

“I trade-” she lied quickly. “I hunt and I trade. The Dalish style holds up well, so I learned to fold leather like your people do. I traded city goods for the cloak; glass and paper and grain. The bow I came across in the city- I don’t know who brought it to market or how they found it. It was the best gear I had when we fled the alienage. We’re from Gwaren: my promised and his nephew.”

“And how do you know what _I am?”_

“My father traded with the Dalish for years,” She kept her eyes closed, and Jylan kept his hand firmly down on Dirthamen’s growling back, and Zevran kept his fingers at his knives. “He learned from Clan Sabrae, and Clan Vhadan’ena, and I learned from him. You- you have Elgar’nan’s sunburst and June’s dagger there, on your shoulder, in halla horn. You approached us first, and you’re the only one to talk: _Panelan’virelan,_ master warrior.”

He stopped holding her quite so harshly but did not take his hand from her completely, which meant Dirthamen had no reason to calm down yet and continued to make his sinister noises under his master’s hand. The hunter regarded the dog and the direct attention made the mabari’s growls grow ever louder. He pointed at Jylan, and spoke to him.

“You two, I might believe.” The hunter stated, then looked at Zevran with outright derision. “ _You_ , I will not.”

“I am a friend to Keeper Lanaya, and I am here to see the Grey Wardens who have come to the _Arlath’vhen_.” He repeated. “There may be only five or six of them at most, Dalish elves who gave themselves to the cause against the Darkspawn and threat of Blight, plus their commander who is also elven.”

“There are _no_ Grey Wardens here, _banal’vhen_.” The hunter’s voice was terse and Zevran felt a cold something strike in his gut. Soren- would _not_ have changed his mind. “They wouldn’t be welcome anyways, any who turn their backs on the People would not be allowed to come slinking back to the brothers and sisters they abandoned.”

“Keeper Lanaya _sent_ her hunter to Vigil’s Keep for the joining,” Zevran shot back hotly, “And I will speak with her, her clan _must_ be on the other side of that ridge, and the Warden Commander will be with her- they are _friends.”_ Just as Zevran and Soren were friends, and Soren had given his word: he would be here.

“ _None_ of you are Dalish,” the Hunter stated harshly, and Zevran did not like their odds if it came to blows but he would not stand for much more of this. “ _None_ of you are welcome. That you would drag a child through the wilds on business that has _nothing to do_ with our people is disgusting enough, but you have no idea what you’re even talking about. Turn away, _balan’vhen_ , there is nothing for you here.”

“The boy is a mage,” Jylan said. He gathered attention to himself but did not stand up, still too focused on holding Dirthamen at ease beside him and watching Neria in her captor’s harsh hold. “We fled Gwaren to keep the city guards from killing him, or from hunting through the alienage and doing harm to the other elves in the quarter looking for him. The Dalish have strict traditions and high expectations, but we could not allow the humans to murder my nephew for something he could not control. Master Arainai promised to help us meet either with the Dalish through Keeper Lanaya, or connect to the Chantry’s College via the Warden Commander. Even if the Grey Wardens are not here, the Keepers are, and if we are turned away then we will either be forced to run for the rest of our lives, or to wait for an Andrastian with a sword to shed more innocent blood.”

 _This_ had the right effect on them. Zevran was glad for it, because it focused attention on Jeevan now, and though the child was scared and huddling against his uncle, the hunters behind their leader slowly, cautiously, let down their arrows and released their draws. They exchanged looks, they made silent hand-signs, and the tension in their spoiled camp began to slowly come down.

The master holding Neria looked at her again with a shrewd and judging gaze, but then finally released her. Jylan stood and Dirthamen did as well, but the hound remained fast at his master’s side. Neria almost tripped getting to them, and she helped draw Jeevan to his feet as Jylan reached out and fixed where her cloak had been twisted back by the harsh shaking. The master watched the family closely for several moments, and then he spoke again.

“There’s something not right about you, _banal’vhen_.” Zevran felt his ire rise again, but the master wasn’t _wrong_ and Jylan answered the comment in the same passive way he did everything else.

“As a child I was torn from my family by the Chantry’s Templars,” he explained, starting in a different place than usual, and the language he used beyond that point was different as well. “In their Circle, I was forced to undergo a Rite which cut me off from the realm of dreams and destroyed my magic, robbing me of all emotion in the process, and permitting them to use me as a slave vessel until my escape. The Rite has been outlawed by the Chantry now, but it was hardly the only abuse to be had and certain mindsets may persist if my nephew is forced to submit to the College.”

Protecting a child, protecting a child with magic, and protecting a child with magic from _enslavement_ had a beautiful effect on their captors. The Dalish oath alone would be enough: _never again shall we submit_ , had Jylan known the phrase or was this just a happy accident? Even the master gave a faint recoil, blinking hard at the language and looking at the huddled family again with fresher eyes. Zevran took the opportunity presented to walk towards them, and placed himself between Jylan’s family and the Dalish.

“It was the woman who tracked and guided our way here to the _Arlath’vhen_ ,” he said, “But make no mistake, these elves are _my_ charge, Master Hunter. Will you take us to Keeper Lanaya or not? If she does not know me then why would I ask to be taken into the thick of your people’s meeting place? Fighting hunters in the wilds is one thing, causing trouble when every man, woman, and child would have reason to take up arms against a troublesome outsider is something else.”

Either good sense or simple pity won the day in the end, because after a few more moments of silent deliberation, at last, they were permitted to follow the scouting party back towards the ridge.

Zevran had seen Ostagar _once_ before, covered in snow in the deep heart of winter, while Soren, Alistair, and Wynne had explored the ruin searching for anything King Cailan’s encampment may have left behind. They had uncovered numerous documents and several important arms, plus the young king’s much abused body which they had laid properly to rest. The only good darkspawn was a dead darkspawn, and Ferelden’s last two Grey Wardens had done mighty fine work clearing and cutting down the garrison of beasts that had taken up residence in the ruined towers and cathedrals.

It seemed rather foolish to bring a gathering of an entire nation together in such a haunted place, but Blight was a poison like few others. Fifteen years ago the Korcari wilds had been a black soup of noxious despair, but these last few days there had been fish, and fowl, and fresh green things waking up under the lingering snow. The earth was warm from swamp-gas and rotted plants, bitter still, but no longer toxic. Ferelden’s Blight had last only one year and some months, not like Western Orlais which had been pillaged for a hundred years, or the Anderfels which had been scarred and scored by two Blights now. Ferelden was healing, slowly yes, but fifteen years after the fact the progress was clear.

They could hear the encampment before they smelled it, and they could smell it long before they saw it. Zevran did not know how many clans existed in Ferelden, and while he knew Clan Zathrian- which was apparently not their real name? had some two hundred or so members, he did not know if that was the norm for all Dalish. Certainly some would be much smaller, but others may have been much larger?

He did not know how many elves were gathered at Ostagar, but there was a herd of Halla stretching through the forest south of the fortress’s towers and rises for nearly a mile. A row of aravels formed a make-shift wall in the valley where Ferelden’s army had perished sixteen years ago. The valley was full of fires and tents and more land-ships, and there was smoke rising in thick stacks from the ruins themselves, indicating many hundreds more all high above them on the ridge.

Roasted meats and laundry vats over fires, the clang of metal work and rhythmic beat of repairs to aravels, wheezing saws and loud, verbose voices in all tones and mingling between Trade and snatches of _El’vhen_.

Vahade- no, that was wrong. Vhadan’ena? _Va_ - _dan-en-a…_ That was- the real name of Lanaya’s clan? He repeated the name Clan Zathrian and Neria pulled a face at him as they walked forward within a ring of warry hunters, their escort prompting strange and curious looks from the Dalish. This was not a meeting for outsiders, but here they were: two men, a woman, a child, a mabari, and a donkey. Thank the Maker none of them were human.

Neria remained very close to Jylan as they walked through the lower camp, following the old road and ramparts under the final stretch of the Imperial Highway to rise up to the fortress’s belly. There were more camped elves even here on the twilight steps. And the banners: blue and red and green and gold, yellow and saffron and violet and indigo, all of them crossed over with white designs which were beginning to glow in the fading daylight. Masks, bows, chalices, hands, axes, halla, owls, bears, knives, swords, arrows, and so many others in too many combinations. If each banner represented a single clan in the Arlath’vhen, then there were easily two hundred different ones gathered here.

As long as they found Vhadan’ena, and Zevran could find Revasina, and they could _all_ avoid Talanulea, then all would be well for this tense gathering of a fractured nation.

Zevran walked in front of Jylan and Neria, the tranquil carrying his staff and remaining close to his partner and nephew, Dirthamen’s growls finally reigned in as the war hound followed at a stately pace behind the family. Zevran checked back to see them repeatedly, just to make sure nothing was amiss. Neria looked as if she were going to be ill, and by the time they reached the base of the Tower of Ishal, the Imperial Highway in clear view through the thronging halla and elves, she had her arm looped through one of Jylan’s, leaning on him as they walked.

They arrived at a ring of aravels all but indistinguishable from the countless others they had passed. Here at last, the Master Hunter asked him his name which Zevran gave freely. If this was Vhadan’ena, then the Grey Wardens…

He did not see their banner. He did not see their tents. He did not see _any_ sign of Amaranthine or the Grey Wardens. If Lanaya was here but Soren was _not_ then what would his excuse be? His reason? _Meet me at the Arlath’vhen_ , Zevran had asked him, and Soren had said _yes._

Where was he? The thought made Zevran hot under the collar, left him itching to walk faster, to move around more, to go _looking for that damned griffon_. He’d said he would be here, now _where was he?_

But they stopped and they waited and they loitered with their suspicious guards still watching them. Zevran focused his attention on watching back, making sure that as clearly as they saw him settle his hands near his reclaimed blades, he saw when the blond one tested his bowstring again, or when the woman with the undercut through her black hair nudged the hilt of her sword.

Activity and voices kicked up in the encampment the master hunter had vanished into, and with that activity came footsteps, and attention, and-

Wardens!

Zevran’s crass and crabby attitude fell away. He knew that black hair and that long gait, that bitter, tired old face of his, his pale fingers bare to show the tattoos marked across their backs. He let out a cry and flung his arms in the air, thrilled!

“Nathaniel Howe!” Zevran cheered, “You have stones like the walls around us to show your _shem’len_ face in a crowd like this! And they said _no Wardens_ were in Ostagar!”

“Thank the _Maker_ you’re safe, Zevran,” Nathaniel’s joy did not rise to meet him, not even enough for a typically sombre man like him. Something was the matter, did he not look more _relieved_ than happy? He seemed far too tired for this time of day, but dressed down in only his blue gambeson and a dagger, no silverite or bow. He was clean, he had been here at least a few days then. “Or _Sylaise_ , or _June_ , or _Andruil_ , or whoever else runs things around here. The others’ll be- _wait a minute…_ ”

“Zevran!” Ah, a much better welcome was coming his way. Velanna’s scars were no kinder in the soft spring dusk than they were at any other point, the wilted, blackened tips of her ears and the blight marks around her eyes melding poorly with her blood writing. She came at a hurried pace to catch up with her husband, and she as well was clean and dressed comfortably, not fresh off the road.

 _Nathaniel_ was a human warden, _Velanna_ was a Dalish elf, and the hunters who had escorted them this far were willing to part for her while they continued to glare bitterly at Nathaniel. Blessedly, Howe was used to the venom, or at least too thick-skinned to be bothered by it. One had to understand where the Dalish were coming from with these things, after all. Still, it was good to be greeted with clasped hands and a smile and- tears?

“Maker and Creators,” he tried to laugh, to understand. “What’s gotten into you, Wardens? A man takes a winter away in the south, and all his friends lose their charms?”

“How in the _Maker’s Name_ did _you_ get here?” Nathaniel blurted out, and Zevran was almost taken back until he realized Howe wasn’t talking to him, but past him.

“I walked, Warden Howe.” Jylan answered, and it was a stiff one even for him, but Nathaniel just laughed.

“I can _see that_ ,” he tried to be good natured, but _something_ got in the way and Zevran found his attention trying to tap into what it was. He squeezed Velanna’s hands and heard her gasp when she looked past him and saw Jylan. Something passed between husband and wife, and Nathaniel put a hand on Velanna to direct her around Zevran to speak with the Tranquil.

“You should come with me,” Nathaniel told him, his voice falling. “We’ll get you washed up and fed first, maybe, but…”

“Is your commander here?” Zevran asked, just to get to what mattered most. Something was clearly wrong with things, but Soren would be the best person to put it plainly for him. Curiously and not very kindly, Nathaniel took a soft, hesitant breath at the question. What the hell was _that_ supposed to mean?

“He is, yes.” And so softly spoken, what was _wrong?_

“Nathaniel?” Zevran used his name to try and make him focus, and it worked- briefly. Nathaniel looked at him and then his gaze was chased away by something, something like shame? “ _Nate?_ What’s going on?” Oh no- “Is he _injured?_ ”

“I… think you should just come with me.” That was not a yes or a no and that meant it was not answer- no, Zevran would not stand here and bicker with him. Nathaniel wanted to go into the camp, that would bring him to answers, and what Zevran wanted was _answers_.

They were not allowed to move until the master hunter returned, grim and suspicious, with the gliding steps of a mature and kindly elven matron. Lanaya’s pale blonde hair had greyed swiftly once she’d taken over the leadership and protection of her clan, but the task had not hardened or hurt her, at least not enough to hide the proud, sharp-minded young woman who had aided the Grey Wardens and brought her peoples’ might to bear against the Archdemon.

Lanaya led the hunter with her staff in hand, a white creation of bone and wood with a silvery vein coiled around the top of it. She wore a mantle of white fur and cured skins over her folded Dalish leathers, toeless boots and a soft yellow tunic girded by the belts and bindings of her office. There was a weight to her and a heaviness in her eyes, but above all else: strength.

“ _Zevran_ ,” she said when she saw him, and a relieved, gracious look crossed her soft face. She held out her hands to him and he took them warmly, pleased to see another familiar and friendly face. “Seeing you safe is a relief, my friend. Esseran,” she looked to the hunter whose arms were heavily folded over his chest, and his scowl was even more pronounced now than before. Lanaya didn’t acknowledge his bitterness, she just smiled and spoke with that warm fondness that made her a good leader. “Thank you for bringing them safely to us. Zevran is a dear friend, and anyone whom he would bring with him through the winter snows is welcome at Vhadan’ena’s fires. Please, give my utmost regards to Keeper Holuren when you return. Dareth’shiral.”

Esseran was not pleased, but he didn’t have to be. He nodded and gave a return blessing, then with a sharp nod he gathered his hunters and left them. Zevran was still holding Lanaya’s hands, but it was Nathaniel who spoke first.

“Keeper, we were just about to come find and you.”

“This is no ordinary time among the clans, Warden Howe,” Lanaya did not scold him or harp at him, but there was a firm tone of disapproval when she turned her soft gaze on him. “I understand your reasons, but next time try and keep to the aravels?” Nathaniel, rightly so, gave a squirm of shame.

“Yes, Keeper. I meant no disrespect by stepping forward.”

“You are human, Warden, intention has little to do with it.” She looked at Zevran again and squeezed his hands, and with a nod she dropped them. “But that is enough of that. Come, Zevran, I understand you’ve brought companions with you?”

“A family, yes.”

“How very like you,” she said with a fondness he found most charming. She was a very sweet woman, Keeper Lanaya. “Esseran told me they fled from an alienage, have they come seeking sanctuary with the Dalish?”

“Their situation is- _delicate,_ Keeper _._ ”

“As is ours, friend.” Oh, Zevran did not like the sound of that. “Please, come to my fire, all of you.”

Velanna oversaw shepherding Jylan’s family into the camp behind Zevran and the Keeper.

“Did you reach Gwaren safely, Dahlen?”

“Yes.”

“Did… you find your family?”

“Yes. The boy is my nephew.”

“Oh-! He does- there’s a strong family resemblance. …What’s his name?”

“Jeevan.”

Zevran heard Velanna try several more times to encourage the family to talk to her, but to no avail. He had to in fact twist around and look over his shoulder at Jylan, though there was nothing to read or infer from the Tranquil. His answers to Velanna’s questions were stilted and short, and Neria was too nauseated by her surroundings and fear of the Dalish to do much better. The poor child caught between them was too smart not to notice their hesitation to speak, but at least he came by a more genuine reason not to answer her.

Jeevan’s eyes were massive and wandering, and the boy could scarcely walk for all the things to look at. He had never left Gwaren’s limits and he had been rightfully afraid of the Brecillian, but now the child seemed free to wonder and gasp at the ruined fortress now, briefly, restored to frenzy and life. He was kept between his uncle and Neria by both adults holding a hand to his shoulders, but several times just walking through the fortress to get here he had almost slipped free of them to get a better look at something. He would twist and look past them, or try to turn and walk backwards, or his head would crane back to watch the ribs of the ruined fortress pass above them, all the while nearly tripping over the uneven ground.

Dirthamen, if it was any consolation, was very pleased to see Velanna again, and consented to look up for a head-scratch while trotting along beside his master.

The aravels and tables and tents of the Clan’s life were clustered together in a tight series of circles and loops, the wagons forming walls between this camp and the clans around them, a honeycomb of families and craftsmen many times the size of the usual camp. Throughout it all, Zevran still saw no grey griffons or gold bears- until he did, but it was not nearly right.

They came to Lanaya’s aravel with its familiar hanging charms and woven screens hanging from the lowered sails, and huddled up beside it was the familiar and badly abused canvas and wool of at least two or three Warden tents all stitched and sutured together to make one slightly larger shelter. But there was no banner, no flag on a pole to show that they were here in any official capacity. Horses! But only four, and again with tack and barding that looked as if it had seen a rough season.

This was not how Soren, who rolled his eyes with exasperation whenever the Dalish came up, would consent to travel. The journey from Vigil’s Keep to Ostagar should not have worn his party so ragged either, why- there were tears in some of those canvas lengths! Actual tears! Repaired, yes, but torn just the same! Where was the bright blue field pavilion he had ordered set up in Redcliffe last winter? Where was Amaranthine’s gold bear with its waving pennants? Certainly there were elves in the Silver Order, so he should have had at least two of _them_ with him for appearance’s sake, and again: only four horses?

Soren, and Nathaniel, and Velanna, that made three with one more Warden somewhere in the camp. Nonsense, there were no less than five Dalish Wardens in Vigil’s Keep _not_ counting Athras and Velanna. Where were _they?_

“Is the Warden Commander actually here?” Zevran asked as they came to Lanaya’s fire. His doubts were creeping up on him, and it was either his temper or an uncomfortable ball of anxiety taking up residence in his stomach. If Soren was _not_ here, then he needed a _damn good reason_ for it. Or, if Soren was _not_ here, then how quickly could Zevran hurry to reach him?

No. Why would he go into danger without Nathaniel?

But Nathaniel was here and the man was haunted, where would Soren go _without_ Nathaniel?

“He is,” Lanaya confirmed, echoing the Warden but still offering the stones and blankets and modest comforts of her fire to him and the others. “You should eat and rest before meeting with him.” Absolutely not.

“I… am not certain what you are trying to do, Keeper.” There was a difference between polite hosting and… whatever this was. “This is not Vigil’s Keep, and even if it were I still take my meals _with_ his Grace. Call upon whichever deity pleases you, but I think I would rather take supper with my friend, not gussy myself up before calling upon him like I am his subject.” And if Soren was pulling strings to make it _seem like_ Zevran needed permission to see him, then oh no, that would not go over well for a certain Archmage. Zevran had punched him before, would punch him again, and was alright with punching him right now if this nonsense was him being petty.

This was not the introduction he would have wanted for Neria, and it was not becoming of him to act childishly after they had _already_ spent so many months apart. Zevran was here, Soren was here, could they not move on and go back to their brotherhood now when they had _both_ made an effort to see each other?

Lanaya took a slow breath and her apprentice, a young black-haired girl a few years older than Jeevan, gathered bowls and began to stir what was bubbling away in the pot over the fire. Yes, let Jylan and Neria and the boy and the hound all eat, Zevran would not.

“Lanaya, is he _here?”_ Zevran asked again, and he made certain there was a shrewdness to his voice now. Lanaya was watching the flames, and her mouth was pressed thin.

“ _Yes_ , Zevran, he is. I still think you should rest here before you go to see him.”

“Is he injured?” He questioned, “Is he wasting away and dying in one of these aravels? Why is he not out here to greet me, or has no one gone to tell him I have come? _Where_ is he, Keeper?”

She watched her damn fire and even when Lanaya _did_ turn her gaze to him again, she didn’t say anything. Zevran was _this close_ to giving a whistle and a shout for Dinah, because Soren went next to nowhere without his mabari. If Dinah was not in this camp, then Soren was not in this camp, and Zevran would know _why_.

“In the Wardens’ tent, Zevran.” _Finally_ the Keeper answered him. He tossed his hands out and bowed his shoulders.

“ _Much obliged_ , Keeper.” Yes, let that salt and sting because frankly he should not have had to ask so many times to see someone who by all reckoning now did not want to see _him_. They were supposed to be _brothers._

Zevran pivoted and looked back at the family, showing a palm to Jylan and Neria as a way of parting from them but for a few minutes. He began walking away from them and towards the makeshift pavilion next to Lanaya’s aravel, but felt Nathaniel fall in step with him before he was more than a few strides gone.

“Zevran-” the call alone was an annoyance but the hand that brushed his arm was _not_ needed, and Zevran stopped sharply to look at the Warden.

“What _now?_ ” He grunted, and made sure it was a miserable-sounding thing. “You’re all acting strangely and I’m not in the mood for such things, it has been a long winter and a longer day, Nathaniel. Stop this. Will he see me or not?”

“He’ll see you,” Nathaniel answered, but his conviction wasn’t there. His jaw was offset and he seemed shy, and hesitant, and _remorseful?_ “But he’s not himself and he’s not alright, Zevran. He’s-”

Patience, have _patience._ Zevran took a cold breath in through his nose and he waited. He would force himself to wait and to resist the anxiety beginning to buzz and rattle about in his chest now.

“He…” Nathaniel’s words faltered and the pain across his face came back like something was chewing through his gut. The Warden let the air out in a wheeze and said no more, just looked at Zevran and shook his head. “Mahanon’s in there with him, Warden Lavellan.”

Zevran knew who Mahanon was, what he did not know and did not like was how much _guilt_ was painting itself down Nathaniel’s face.

He turned and walked faster this time. He did not run, he did not scurry across the pebbled ground of the campsite and rip back the tent flaps like a man possessed, but he was quick about it. His heart was beating fast and light in his chest and it would not settle down again until he knew what in Andraste’s Name had put such a fear in Soren’s company.

Nathaniel said his commander was not alright. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

 _‘Don’t be the Calling.’_ The _horrid_ thought struck him cold in the back and Zevran’s hand recoiled from the tent before he touched it. No. He would not think such a thing again, to do so would only tempt fate. It would _not_ be Soren’s Calling. It would not be. Wardens could last for thirty years after the Joining, and even if Blight Wardens lost their minds sooner- it did not matter, Soren would _not_ go now.

Still he hesitated and that was why someone inside the tent was the one to open the way for him. Elven, but not Soren- black hair and a blue Warden gambeson, shrouded now by the white robe and heavy halla-woven mantle of a Dalish Keeper. Warden Mahanon did not rise from the tent, but remained down in a comfortable crouch at the entrance and looked up at Zevran knowingly. Fuck, this was all much too tense for him.

“Master Arainai,” The Warden stated, Zevran didn’t hear himself acknowledge him. “Have the others told you?”

“No, where is he?” Was he in pain? Was he dying?

“It can be reversed.” What the _hell_ was that supposed to mean!? Zevran took a breath to _shout_ at him but the Dalish elf retreated further inside and beckoned him to follow, which he did.

Because this tent was so many smaller shelters stitched together and with several more yards of canvas added, it was tall enough for Zevran to stand in and walk about between the four posts holding everything up. The walls were thin and crowded with Warden gear: saddlebags and weapons and provisions, books and saddles and so on. In the middle of the square space there was a low pit holding a deep iron-belly brazier with coals glowing warmly, and a set of small glowstones was shimmering from one of the tent posts to give more light now that the sun was slowly retreating over the wilds.

A delighted bark greeted him and Zevran saw Dinah jump to her feet, short tail swinging as the mabari danced quickly around the bedrolls and pawed in place waiting for his acknowledgement and attention. Good, at least Dinah was well.

Soren was- right there? He was near the back of the tent and seated on what was presumably his bedroll, next to his saddlebag- his weapons were strangely absent, no staff, no shield, and so on, but it was not as if he needed them. His armour had been complete stripped off, even the gambeson and robe, leaving him sitting with his legs crossed in simple leather boots and wool trousers. His vest and shirt had Dalish patterns and stitches across the cuffs- so they could not have been his? Why was he borrowing clothes from the clan?

Why didn’t he say anything in greeting? Why didn’t he stand up? He was _looking_ at Zevran and he looked _well enough_ \- but his eyes…? No. He looked _fine._

Soren’s hair was loose and longer now from the season- pale and light and straight hanging nearly now to his chin. No new scars, his nose and face were unblemished, the familiar clipped end of one ear showing through his longer hair. He was holding a small book open in his lap and had several sheets of paper spread out in front of him. He didn’t look injured or ill or anything bad at all, he was just- quiet.

He still hadn’t moved.

Hadn’t said anything. Why had he not said anything? Why was he waiting?

His eyes- _no_. Something else, it had to be something else. It was going to be _literally anything else-_

Zevran had just spent all winter with Jylan. All winter dealing with that thousand-yard stare and that complete inability to be one-hundred percent in any given conversation. All winter watching Jylan be in the midst of discussing something only for his attention to drift away, calm as a leaf down a stream when the topic no longer suited him. All winter with silence that was never quite satisfying, never really peaceful, silence that was just the absence of something every other person just naturally had available to them. That lack of- lack of _presence._

Soren’s presence was gone. He wasn’t angry or withdrawn or at ease, he just wasn’t _there._ He wasn’t supposed to sit quiet and passive in the corner, not sit and wait and stare and see what someone else would do before picking a handful of words to start on his own terms. His armour was gone, his weapons, his _clothes?_ Why was he wearing _Dalish clothes?_ Why hadn’t he _said anything?_

No, please no, anything but this. Anything but the Calling or _this_.

Zevran crossed the tent and dropped on his knees. Soren saw him, was aware of him, even watched him, but he didn’t move to say or do anything. Zevran touched his hands and his friend just let it happen, didn’t move or ask what he was doing. His hands were bare, where were his rings? His Arl’s ring of Amaranthine? Morrigan’s black iron? The silver thumb ring for the Grey Wardens?

His anxiety fell back as fear started to hiss and sting through his ribs, thick and horrifying because this wasn’t real this wasn’t allowed to happen this _was not real_.

“Soren?” He had no brand his face was _fine_ there was no sunburst on his forehead and his hair fell naturally back into place when Zevran raked both his hands back through it. The only thing Soren did was blink fast and then slow when he was touched. “ _Soren?_ ”

“I-” Too quiet, _too quiet_ , where was his _voice? “_ -didn’t think you’d come.” _No_ -

Zevran took his head firmly and pulled Soren into a kiss with him. No, no, _no_ , _no-_ _brother, no…_

It was wrong. It felt wrong. It didn’t work. They’d kissed before, like this but better- when one or the other had needed it. During the Blight, curious and playfully arrogant. After the Battle of Denerim when Soren had finally woken up from slaying the Archdemon and Zevran had known no other way to banish their fears. When Zevran had returned from Antiva and Soren had throw decorum aside to give him the only proper greeting. When Kieran had been missing and the storm with Redcliffe had still been building and either Soren would have broken or Zevran’s heart would have for him if they hadn’t taken those few seconds just to _stop_ and to _calm down.._.

But this- _this_ did not count. This was not the way it was supposed to be. There was no brief but satisfying push into his lips, no quick grasp at wrist or back or hair to steal that moment of contact before releasing it with reverence and thanks. Soren didn’t even hold his breath, didn’t push or pull or turn away or do _anything_ , just sat there with his face between Zevran’s hands and his mouth passive and dull against his. It was _wrong_.

They were not lovers, they were family. Soren’s heart was in Morrigan’s care, whole and freely given. He loved her as his wife and his partner and the mother of his son, but Zevran was his _brother_. They were _brothers_ and their love did not feel like _this_.

“ _Tell me,”_ Zevran didn’t even lose a breath kissing him, because it didn’t feel right and it didn’t come together the way it should have. He held his brother’s face and he pulled back to look at him, and it was _wrong_. There was no brand but Soren wasn’t staring, he was just looking at nothing, his blue eyes utterly vacant. “Tell me who did this-?” Nothing. “Tell me _why- when!”_ Nothing. “Who did this, Soren? _Soren!_ ”

Zevran pulled him into a tight, fast hug and Soren’s arms finally moved. His hands released the book he’d been holding this whole time and he returned the embrace- sort of. It wasn’t enough- it wasn’t _right._

“Morrigan,” he said her name in such a weak, flat voice… “She already tried to kiss a reaction out of me, Zevran. She tried- her attempts all ended in tears.” Well good for her then, because now Zevran couldn’t hold back anymore and felt hot tears spilling down his cheeks. This could not be _real…_

 _“Hermano, talk to me…”_ Zevran begged softly, holding him tight around his back and shoulders, trying to feel his heartbeat, or the warmth of him, or anything to prove he was still alive. Soren let him hug him like this and that itself was frightening. When there was _real_ privacy, when it was light-hearted and came with a joke or two, then affection had no ransom between them. But Mahanon was still in the tent observing in complete silence behind Zevran, and even if he was gone then they were still in a thin tent in a Dalish camp under the ruins of Ostagar- this was not the sort of place Soren should have accepted comfort in. “How did this happen?”

 _This was wrong, this was wrong, this was wrong…_ Soren was mage and he had come from the Circle of Magi, yes, but he had fought demons and conquered the Fade. He had used his magic skillfully and well for his entire life. He had never feared the brand, or possession, or being locked back up in his or any other tower. He was an Archmage the College preferred to have stay far away from them and mind his Wardens. He was a practical man, educated, knowledgeable of things Zevran could debate with him on but also deeply versed in matters of magic and mysticism that only Connor and a few other mages could approach him about. He was a Commander, a sorcerer, a war-lord, a nobleman of frightening sway and power. He was not _this_. Soren could not become _this…_

“…My wardens and I accompanied Morrigan to Kinloch Hold,” his brother explained and Zevran’s eyes kept burning and weeping. This could not be _real_. “The veil was thin and Duty manifested itself part-way between worlds. There was a demon, and when Duty tried to cut it down it struck me instead.” No-

No, _no, no…_

“ _Tranquil…?”_ Saying the word made it _real_ , and between the guilty pain in Zevran’s chest and the sudden tension that pulled at Soren what was real now became what was _wrong_. It had a _name_ and it was _wrong. “_ I should have been there-” Zevran clutched him a little tighter and felt Soren drop his head slowly until he was resting on him. “I should have been with you- watching your back- _helping_. I…”

What had he been doing instead? Where had he been, and what about it all had been _so important_ that he had abandoned his vows and his duties and his _brother_ to go running off to the south? He had been _angry_ at their last parting. He had been _angry_ and felt so _suffocated_ by his anger that he had needed space, needed something else that was not Grey Wardens or the noble circles of Ferelden or the complicated machinations of Tevinter. Zevran had been so convinced that he had _earned_ something else, believed so wholly that he could do _whatever he so desired_ with himself, that he had turned his back and blades away from the purpose he had carried for years.

He owed this man his life and his freedom and his happiness and more, and Zevran had _abandoned him_ …

“I didn’t think you would come back.” He had already said as much once, now Soren repeated himself and Zevran felt the pain of his words pierce and twist like a knife between his ribs, and he sobbed around it trying to breathe. “Like Morrigan, you don’t have to stay…”

“Where is she?” Zevran asked him softly, letting the tears flow silently and brushing his hand down through Soren’s hair. This couldn’t be the end of him- did Kieran know? Did _Alistair?_ What about the rest of the Wardens and Vigil’s Keep? Kinloch Hold was the opposite side of the country from Amaranthine and-

“Tevinter.” Morrigan had to know because Soren had mentioned her already, she had been here, she knew. Why had she left? “She told me she means to find the Lady Inquisitor and from her learn the technique to reverse the rite, but I am doubtful of her return.” His voice was so _flat_ , so- _dull_. He did not even sigh the words, not gnash his teeth around them, there was no cavalier dismissal of important things he wanted kept at arms length so as to keep from hurting himself. “I also doubt the technique’s existence, or effectiveness.”

“But does such a thing truly exist?” Was there _actually_ a way to bring a mage back from this?

“The College has argued for years without effect,” his Archmage friend told him, and Zevran had to pull back enough and sit on his knees to look at him as Soren muddled vaguely through his next few words. He made to wipe away his own tears but then stopped; no, let them come. “Morrigan says it is a secret closely guarded by the Chantry, but that the Inquisition seized it. I remain doubtful. I was not given the brand at the end of a preparatory ritual and there was no one overseeing or guiding the process. I was rendered this way by mistake, accident, and tragedy, Zevran. A ritual which reverses the effects of a Rite carried out by the Chantry may exist, but there is no one practiced in its execution, and I was not given a Rite.”

“But it _might_ work,” Zevran said, his hopes catching on the words. “It _might_ exist.” And if it _was_ real and it _did_ work, would Jylan want it too? What about the rest of the Guildsmen?

“I will not wait much longer to find out.” Soren’s statement was forward and sudden, and Zevran was pried from his thoughts before he could sink into questions of the Formari and the Tranquil. “If I cannot be restored in a timely manner, I will not risk destroying my reputation by revealing my condition to the wider world.” That-

“What are you talking about?” Soren was looking directly at him, but like Jylan his eyes were only focused, not engaged. “If the solution is on its way, Soren, then you need to either wait for it or fight to reach it faster. Anything less is suicide.”

He should not have said it that way.

“Yes.” _No._ It ripped and pulled at Zevran’s gut, _no_. “It is the alternative.”

“It is _not_.” He would not die- he would not _kill himself._ “Soren, be reasonable.”

“Before you left,” No, don’t bring _that_ up like it meant anything here! “You were angry with me for my treatment and views of other elves. Tell me, how does it help the elves of the cities, of Tevinter, of the Dales, and so on, if the Hero of the Fifth Blight is found to be Tranquil? Who benefits by having me forced out of my command and voted down by the Banns of Amaranthine? What does anyone except the Chantry gain when an Elven mage is stripped of his power and made a symbol of pity and fallen pride?”

“If you’re like this then none of that should matter to you!” Zevran shouted, horror running its cold hands up and down his back- _no_. “You stay alive, and when Morrigan restores you, we help you take back your pride and bite back at anyone who dared take a stab at you while you were down! _Speak sense,_ brother!” Maker he wanted to scream- to _weep_ all over again, but that was what this _entire damn camp had been doing!_ Nathaniel was walking like he was in mourning, Velanna was playing at _peacekeeper?_ Lanaya had not even had the gumption to straightly tell Zevran what he was walking into! This camp was not a reunion, it was a fucking _wake!_

“Is _this_ why you’re hiding here with the Dalish?” Zevran hissed, borrowing heavily from the elf in front of him because if Soren could use outrage as a damned crutch then _so could Zevran._ “I expected the Silver Order and the Dalish Wardens to be here with you, for you to at least have the _curtesy_ to sit with your hostess and give me a damn greeting when I arrived! Why are you wearing that? It’s not yours! Where between the Fade and the Beyond is your fucking armour?!”

“It was taken from me.” _Taken?_

“And your staff?”

“There was no reason for me to have it without magic, so it has been carried by Velanna since we left Kinloch Hold.” _That staff_ was his, it didn’t matter if it was the dawnstone one, the bloodstone one, or just a fancy stick Soren had thought was good for whacking the Darkspawn with. If Jylan could carry a staff given to him by a Brecillian sylvan without a lick of his own magic to power it with, then by Hesserian’s merciful blade Zevran was going to get his brother back _his fucking staff._

He was _shaking_ with outrage. There was no cool burn to him, he didn’t want to smoulder and take to the shadows, he wanted this _fixed_ and he wanted things to _go back to normal_ again!

“Were you sitting quietly in here because it’s better for you, or were you told to stay out of sight?” Soren blinked slowly at the question, but then gave his answer.

“Mahanon and Nathaniel agreed I would be better off kept away from as many of the clan’s folk as possible to prevent the spread of rumours. I have had Dinah and the tomes from Kinloch Hold-” Zevran stopped listening.

“Up,” he said. “Soren, _get up_.”

“I do not need to leave.”

“Make a fucking choice,” Zevran snapped. Was he going to be a stubborn tranquil like Jylan? Was it all about the brand and nothing to do with who they really were? “Either sit in here because you were asked to or get on your feet again because I told you to. I’m not about to drag you out of this tent, Soren, but if Vigil’s Keep doesn’t know about this then you’re still an Arl and a Commander and you’re _going to fucking act like it._ ”

“The others have deferred to Nathaniel’s command since I was injured.” No, wrong. Soren had not surrendered command of something since- ever, actually. It wasn’t physically in him to give up what was his. “They will not listen to me at this point, not that I have tried since my repeated requests for a Warden death were denied by them.” Was that _so?_ Zevran could see it from their side: of course they would say no, but how exactly had they refused him if he wasn’t willing to challenge Nathaniel’s say so anymore?

“ _You_ are the Warden Commander,” Zevran reminded him, which was an _awful_ thing to have to do. “Not Nathaniel, and not Oghren either. If the demon had chopped off your legs, you would still be the Commander. If Duty had cut out your tongue, you would still have your hands and letters to make your point. This should not be any different. Are you leaving this tent, Soren, or not?”

 Soren was quiet. It was that awful, unnerving silence of a Tranquil in deep thought and Zevran hated-

“I will not leave without my arms and armour.” He got through that silence surprisingly quickly, and with a _decent_ counterpoint. “The sword and dagger will not be restored to me, but-”

“Did you do something stupid with them?” Zevran asked him sharply, but the words made his eyes sting and his throat swell tight. Many, many months ago, Jylan had told him that Tranquil didn’t survive the Rite without more members of their fragile order present to coach them through the change. If Soren was able to so readily say he would die rather than be this way, and if his Wardens had _stripped him_ of his belongings while ignoring his orders to them, then it reeked of something truly terrible.

“Draw your own conclusions,” Soren challenged him, and thank the Maker for it because it was something only he would have said. “I will not walk around in borrowed clothing.” _Good_. He knew what he had to do now. Zevran knew _exactly_ what he was going to do, and even better: he knew how to start.

Zevran made it to the tent door before Warden Lavellan who _had_ been there the whole time, found his feet. The older elf followed him from the tent and Zevran rounded on him in the red dusk.

 _“Explain_ ,” he hissed, teeth clenched, anger trembling through him. Mahanon closed his eyes and showed his palms in an infuriatingly _calm_ gesture which seemed to _miss the point_ of Zevran’s rage.

“It was sit for weeks more in the same armour, or put him in something actually comfortable, Master Arainai. The clan was kind enough to-”

Zevran drove his fist straight up into Mahanon’s jaw and the Warden dropped hard with a grunt and gasp.

“ _You shamed him_ ,” Zevran hissed down at the mage. “Shake it off, Lavellan, and _go bring back what’s his_.”

“Have you gone _mad?_ ” Mahanon asked, hand to his bloodied mouth and his legs already bent under him to bring himself back up. “We’ve been trying to _help him_.”

“You _stripped him_ and you _shamed him!_ ” Zevran shouted and he’d hit the Warden _again_ if he didn’t _move_. “ _Bring back_ his armour _and_ his staff! Where are his fucking rings? Did you take his _oath_ too? Have you no sense of shame _or_ respect! Get out of my sight and don’t come back until _you have what you cowards stole!_ ”

“Zevran!” Oh _good_ that was _Nathaniel_ storming up to them now! All _scowling_ and _upset_ and either out of his depth or suddenly far too stupid to know his Commander. “Lavellan’s been with the Commander every step of the way, don’t act like he hasn’t had Surana’s best interests in mind since this began!”

“And when did it begin, I tremble to ask?” Zevran spat, hands still clenched at his sides. The Warden wilted at the question and oh, come closer Nathaniel, dear, how Zevran would love to bloody his knuckles a bit more tonight. “Warden! Answer me when I talk to you. When did this happen?”

Backbone, not enough of it, and just a shadow of insult passing through Nathaniel’s dark eyes before fading out again.

“You don’t command me,” a spectre of Warden Howe said, but it was weak.

“I do when you’ve _lost your pride_ and I find you fumbling in the _dark_ like children!” Zevran shouted back, and damn the elves who stopped their evening chores to look at them, who were drawn by the scuffling and violence and shouting of strangers in their camp. “You’ve known him _fifteen years_ and what do you do with that knowledge? You stuff him in a tent with a dog and some books to play with! Let him act the invalid, take away his rank and let him stew on what he says is inevitably going to happen! Is this how you repay the man who restored House Howe? Is _this_ the best your loyalty is worth!”

Anger rumbled up like a storm cloud over Nathaniel’s face and _good!_ Away with this _grieving nonsense!_

“You have _no idea_ -” Nathaniel hissed at him, a threat in the step he took towards Zevran and a threat that was too long in coming! “ _No idea_ what it’s been like! You ran off without so much as a word back to any of us, not even _Lady Morrigan_ knew where to find you! It all meant dragging him down here to Ostagar to wait in hiding like rabbits from the hounds, watching him get no better or worse throughout it all! Don’t you _dare_ disrespect me or _any_ Warden who was still here for our Commander while you were fucking off in Gwaren!”

“A _valiant effort_ to turn the blade, Nate,” Zevran hummed back, pleased with the bare lick of blue that crossed the Warden’s eyes across from him. The taint would clear his damn mind and get the mourning sickness out of the camp one way or another, and Zevran saw the chance to stoke the flames when Velanna came to stand by her husband, her eyes guarded and face stern as she saw a fight brewing. Zevran felt his lip peel back with a sneer and barked at her.

“Are you a Warden or back to being a witch?” he challenged her, and Velanna’s shoulders snapped straight at his rudeness. “You pillage from the dead, not your Commander! Give that staff back to its master before I have to take it from you myself!”

His bold challenge struck a nerve in Nathaniel’s temper. The Senior Warden was far too skilled and practiced with the taint to let the glow erupt fully from his eyes, but the light was more cosmetic than effective anyways. He took another step forward, fast and to the point, and barked at him.

“You think starting a fight is going to fucking solve anything!” He shouted, “If it’s a beating you want, Zevran, then keep it up! You’ve been here all of an hour and you’re already wearing out your damn welcome!”

“I would _love_ to see what a human nestled in the heart of the _Arlath’vhen_ thinks he can do to an _elf_ ,” Zevran goaded, teeth clenched in a mock smile as he released his fists and rolled his shoulders back smoothly. “Take care not to get stuck full of arrows in the processes, my _friend_.”

“ _Enough_.” Mahanon grabbed his arm to turn him. Zevran obliged with a fast twist and his tight fist slamming straight into the other elf’s cheek, bludgeoning him on the side opposite the first punch. Quick as he was with it, the Warden still had time to utter _‘shit-!’_ before the satisfying crush of flesh to fist drove him down again.

He didn’t lose his feet this time and unlike his Captain, Mahanon did not have the years of familiarity with the taint to help him control it. The mage caught his stagger and threw an angry punch for Zevran’s flank that he turned away from in a spin before striking out with his elbow. Wardens were fast, but Dalish Keepers were not brawlers and Zevran’s arm hammered hard on the back of Lavellan’s shoulder.

Zevran checked for and ducked from Nathaniel’s fist when the Senior Warden let his temper join the fray. White light meant a risky grab and twist for the mage’s arm before Zevran used his shoulder and Mahanon’s own weight to heave the Warden up and over to land on his back with another curse, his spell utterly spent before Zevran felt a blast of force to his face from another punch by Nathaniel. Fair.

But that blow meant he saw Velanna’s moving feet, and with a kick he took his stagger into a roll so her staff swung and found only air before she had to reign the blow back in to avoid striking Nathaniel. He came up behind her and grabbed the butt end of the staff before she could swing it back at him, and his other hand found the belt around her gambeson so he could pull and _wrench_ her right off her feet and onto the ground. He won the staff before she could stand and with it-

A whirlwind of howling, snapping jaws erupted in the middle of the fight. Dinah’s deadly claws raked the ground and left dark gashes as she spun, and snapped, and spun again with her great fangs bare in the sunset. She barked and snapped at them, throat raw with anger as her jaws chomped at the air, shoulders wide and pulsing with the urge to leap. Her pale pelt lacked the war-paint that would make her rage-white eyes truly terrifying, but with her heavy body flexing and launching itself between Zevran and the Wardens there was too much danger to ignore her.

Good, three Wardens against one assassin were not good odds. Darkspawn and bandits and wolves, marks followed and cornered or struck from the shadows were entirely different from pissing off three taint-driven fighters and getting into a brawl without help.

“What is the _meaning_ of this?” Lanaya demanded, her clan gathered with faces ranging from horrified, to judging, to simply curious and entertained by the violence. The Keeper thumped the end of her staff on the pebbled ground, her blood writing making her scowl stand out all the more firmly in the dying light.

Dinah was no longer snapping and barking, but her hackles were raised up high and her claws continued to rake the ground when she stepped and walked. Her growls were deep and feral things, ears up and swivelling as she looked at each Warden and Zevran in turn, daring any of them from making a move against her. It wasn’t a command to protect or attack, or even to frighten, but much more complex, something with real thought behind it.

No one answered the Keeper because Zevran felt a tug on the staff in his hands, and relinquished the weapon to Soren. He hadn’t found an alternative to or covered the clearly Dalish make of the shirt and vest, but the intimate familiarity with which his scarred fingers roamed down the haft of the dawnstone rod before settling securely around it was more important. His vacant blue eyes were watching Zevran, then turned and observed his Wardens and the watching crowd of Clan Vhadan’ena. He looked at Lanaya very briefly, then gave a sharp, short whistle and looked back to Zevran.

Dinah heard the command and her growls stopped, the hound taking a few deep, frustrated breaths before her hackles began to fall and she stood up straighter. Finally she gave herself a full-body shake and turned to trot back to her master, but her ears swivelled back towards the crowd when another dog barked somewhere nearby.

“You said you would fetch my armour, Zevran.” Soren spoke and it was _enough_ like him that Zevran could breathe around the absence of his leading tone or sharp disapproval. “Not begin a loud brawl with my Wardens and embarrass them in front of the Clan.”

“But I got you out of the tent.” Zevran chirped back at him, causing Nathaniel to give a sharp yell from frustration.

“Why do you _always_ act like this!?” The Warden shouted at him, and Zevran could grin now, he could let enough of his anger and pain go to just smile through what was left. His face hurt, and the throb of his bruised jaw was as cleansing for him as the retreating taint was for Nathaniel. “Why do I always _fall for it!?”_ Zevran smiled at him.

“Because you have a loving heart and an awful temper, my friend, such a dangerous combination.”

“I’m gonna _smack that grin_ right off your-” Nathaniel was cut off by Soren manipulating the staff so it hung horizontally from his firm grip, his arm fully extended to cut the two of them off from Nathaniel.

“As Captain of this company, Warden Howe, you will offer your apologies to our host for your behaviour.” His voice was quiet and lacked its commanding nature, but it was firm. He was heard, and he didn’t hesitate or fumble for his words. “As will you, Zevran. There are better ways to show your frustration, not to mention more private ones.”

“Forgive me, brother, but it seemed this company had spent far too much time being _private_ with its feelings.” Zevran countered him and Soren’s answer was to place his staff back at rest beside him, though he did not grasp or lean on it as he should have. He wasn’t comfortable, or he just wasn’t enough like himself to remember how to show it. “But I got you out of that tent, and you took back the control you were just telling me you had lost. No one makes a mockery of the Fereldan Grey Wardens while you still draw breath, hm?” And he had his staff back, which he did not seem ready to give back to anyone just yet. Good, things were already better than how he had found them. Soren was still watching him and Zevran couldn’t tell if he was amused or not- it was with a sharp sting that he remembered his friend could _not_ feel that way at all.

“Go apologize to Lanaya,” Soren repeated.

“Very well, and then may I take the evening meal with you? There is much to discuss.” Much, specifically why there was now a second mabari in camp who was circling Dinah excitedly.

Both hounds recognized their former kennelmate and wagged their tails in good nature to one another, sniffing and giving soft, pleasing grunts. Dirthamen rose up and dropped his heavy paws on Dinah’s shoulder before she ducked away from him and spun, head down and tail wagging, and she took a bounding leap at the other dog before taking a mouthing bite at his neck in play. Dirth’s answer was a swipe with one large paw, but without the claws to do any harm.

“You may do as you like, Zevran,” his friend answered him without cheek or taunt in his voice. He did not smile, and his attention drifted fluidly between the playing hounds and the watching elves and his embarrassed Wardens. “Just apologize to Lanaya first. And Mahanon.”

“ _Pah,_ he’ll be fine, Warden endurance, you know?” Warden Lavellan had a particularly nasty look for Zevran at the sound of his name. The poor man had a furious red colour marring his cheek and jaw, nevermind all the dust down his back from the throw. Sadly for him, such was the life of a mage in a military order.

Zevran made his apologies to Lanaya, who was frustrated to say the least with him. She also, most pointedly, put a question to him about the strange family once again sitting at her fire after rising to watch the sudden brawl. It was curious to her that they had refused to lodge in an aravel for the night, and had instead staked out a very small plot of ground for Zevran’s camping tent instead.

When he looked in their direction, Jeevan and Jylan were speaking with one of the clan’s families. The boy was putting every ounce of effort into staying firmly at his uncle’s side rather than bolt off toward the beckoning gestures of three children his own age. Jylan had his hands folded and elbows tucked close, his usual posture for when he was uncomfortable with a topic and wanted out of it, and he seemed to be listening to the two hunters speak to him one after the other without offering anything back to them. He had been _very_ untalkative since their near-capture this afternoon…

Neria was driving tent-pins into the ground with the back of their hatchet, and outright ignoring anyone who tried to talk to her. She abandoned her task to take the donkey they’d brought by its barding and get it away from the helpful hands of a Dalish woman who was looking for the animal’s feed and brush, and if she said anything then it was clear by the other woman’s concerned look that it was short and possibly rude.

He would have to have a talk with the three of them, but he had no idea anymore how to try discussing Neria with Soren. It would have to be tomorrow, but when? And how?

“Who is that girl?” The wise Keeper asked him, but he wasn’t quite ready to answer her. He was not prepared to ask if Lanaya knew or was close with the elves of Clan Talanulea either, or how familiar the various Keepers were with all the other clans’ Firsts and Seconds. If Neria did not want to be found by her former clan then it would not do for Zevran to go dropping breadcrumbs for curious hunters to follow. As it was, she clearly wanted nothing to do with Vhadan’ena.

“Have you tried asking?” Lanaya’s look for him was judging and clearly annoyed, but that did not sway him. “If she will not tell you, then sadly it is not my place to do so. What I freely tell you is this of course: she means no harm to anyone, least of all the Dalish, and never during such a holy time for the Clans. All the dear girl wants is a safe life for her chosen and his nephew, perchance with a bit of happiness on the side for them all, and the right to call someone in this world her family again.” This pledge of his, he was happy to see, softened Lanaya somewhat and her frustration melted into a more permissive and patient gaze.

“Then she’s come to the right place,” the Keeper told him solemnly. “The _Arlath’vhen_ is a time for remembering the nation we once were, and the history that each of us works in our own way to try and reclaim. If the boy is a mage and his guardians are open to the ways of the Dalish, then I don’t see why they can’t find home and family again here with us.” Despite how good that sounded, Zevran would not stake his hopes on Neria agreeing with anything of the sort.

“Your kindness, as always, reflects beautifully upon you, Keeper.”

“No more chaos, Zevran, promise me this. Soren is… he needs our _help_.” He needed out of that fucking tent, but now was not the time to go arguing with the Keeper.

“When did they come to you, Lanaya?”

“A week after the year’s end.” That was at least two months ago, and they would have been on the road for a time before that. Maker, he could have been like this from as far back as _Harvestmere_ , before Satinalia even! “He is nearly the same now as he was on that frigid afternoon. Warden Lavellan was the one to track our clan south from the Wending Wood and they caught up to us on the eastern edge of the Fereldan bannorn.”

“I would ask if you can help him, Lanaya, but I think if you could you would have done so already…” It hurt him to say as much, but there was nothing for it. Lanaya’s face pulled with open sympathy and the hand she settled on his arm was comforting and friendly.

“The Dalish know _of_ this condition,” she told him solemnly. “But nothing in my clan’s history or records has any guidance to offer. The Keepers have met a few times since we arrived here, but we’re still waiting a few more days for the straggler clans to make the journey before the _real_ Arlath’vhen can begin. Once all the Keepers are here and we’ve had a chance to take count and give thanks for our endurance, I’ve every intention of asking what our people know of mages who lose their connection to the Beyond. Soren and I have our differences, but nothing that required something like _this._ I’m so sorry…”

“We will endure,” Zevran murmured, only to realize a little too late that his words were close to those murmured by the Dalish themselves. He brought one hand to his face and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day, and it was not ending in any way like how he had intended. “I came here to learn about my mother, you know? But if it comes down to it, I would rather have my brother back than go chasing after ghosts in the mist.”

“Your mother was Dalish?”

“From Clan Revasina, yes. I am told they wander the deserts of Antiva and Rivain. I’m not looking to _join them_ , you understand, only to see if they remember anything at all of a young woman who led an unfortunate life.” But now he had to deal with this instead, and _this_ was a far more difficult reality to face. Too much of it was riding on Morrigan now, not to say she was not capable, but she was far too difficult to follow and lend aid to...

Lanaya’s kindness was something to lean on. She was a good friend, and the warmth around her was desperately needed.

“I’m glad you made it here safely, Zevran.” He really, _truly_ believed her when she said that, soft smile and sad eyes and all. “Go, you need to eat and to rest, I’m sure he’s waiting for you.”

Zevran took his leave from her with a bow and a smile, but he went to Jylan’s family first. At the sight of him Jylan completely abandoned the elves who were speaking to him and Neria gave a frustrated huff at Zevran for taking so long. Jeevan’s mourning stare after the other children made him the last to join them at Lanaya’s fire, but Zevran showed a palm for him to stop, and then pointed after those potential play-mates.

Jeevan took a sudden gasp at the prospect of freedom and play, and with a nervous look at his uncle and mentor for final permission, one of them waved him off and the boy took off like a shot through the twilight.

This left the three of them alone to talk.

“He is… not well,” Zevran told them, and then realized he was doing _exactly_ what Nathaniel and the others had done to him earlier. Neria barely concealed her frustration with him, but it was clear there were sharp and angry words bubbling up in her mouth. She did not want to be here, she was in this place _only_ to speak with Soren, and now he was telling her to wait. “I will try to arrange a meeting for you all tomorrow after I’ve had more time to just talk to him and calm down. I know he doesn’t want it getting out or spreading rumours, but this is important. Please, by whichever God suits you, don’t _tell_ anyone what I am about to share with you.”

“I will not,” Jylan pledged as a matter of fact.

“Fine.” Neria was not as convincing.

“My dear, you are cursed,” he told her and Neria gave a small defensive jerk. “Or I am, I haven’t decided yet. Should I have stayed in Amaranthine? Was I right to go to Gwaren? Only the Maker will have an answer for me and I’m not ready to meet with him just yet.”

He stopped rambling. This was harder than he’d thought it would be. Fine. Quickly then, and spoken to Jylan because the Tranquil wouldn’t have a reaction anyways.

“The Arl was attacked by a demon during an excursion into Kinloch Hold,” he reported. “They killed it, of course, but he took a wound so strange in nature that his connection to the Fade was severed in the process. He is tranquil and I-” Get through it, quickly, just finish. “I- I don’t know how to focus on asking for the boon you came here for. I never meant to waste your time, but I need you to wait. Just- let things calm down, let it settle and if he can be restored then-” this hurt. This was _awful_. It was coming back and he could not speak quickly enough to escape it. “-then I don’t know. It’s all very much for me to take in. I will try to have more for you in the morning, good night.”

He turned away from Neria’s utterly shocked face but stopped when Jylan called after him.

“Is Formari Nasser here?” What-?

“He-? No.” Zevran stopped, his heart aching and his face feeling flushed and swollen with the urge to cry again. “Why?”

“Are there any Guildsmen present in this camp?”

“No, Jylan, _why?_ ”

“How long ago did this happen to the Arl?”

“I don’t have an exact date, only what the Keeper told me.” Why the sudden interest? What was he thinking of? “I would guess two months, or as many as four? I knew nothing of a journey to the old Circle tower before I left Amaranthine so the plan itself must have come up after we left. For the last time, Jylan: why?”

The Tranquil was silent, and unlike Soren he did not come out of his silence quickly. He was thinking, but doing so at such an infuriatingly slow pace that Zevran had to close his eyes and take a deep breath just to keep himself in check. _What?_

“With his condition in mind, if the Arl shows signs of sudden or violent illness, or if he begins to bleed or suffocate unexpectedly, then it may prove wise to summon me.”

“If… If he begins to struggle?” Zevran asked him, and he felt a chill go through his chest. “You did none of those things when you fell ill with us that night.” There had been no blood, he’d kept his breaths just fine despite some strain to them.

“I have been Tranquil for nine years, Master Arainai.” His hands were folded: he did not want to discuss this but he’d chosen and pursued the topic himself. “I was instructed by the Formari of Kinloch Hold on how to navigate the afflictions which come with my condition. The Arl does not have the support I did, and if he falls into a fit of dire distress then it would be prudent to adopt any means of preserving his life. I am not suggesting that I should present myself to him tonight, or even at all if it is not necessary, but at the same time I am not unduly opposed to offering my assistance if it is required.” While he was coming from a good place with his offer, the implications were still… horrifying.

“Thank you, Jylan.” Please don’t let it come to that, Maker please, don’t let it come to that. Neria had her hands up over her face and was taking short, sharp breaths next to Jylan, and the Tranquil’s attention was already on her rather than linger on Zevran. “This is not what any of us wanted here. Please, take care of each other tonight and I will see you again in the morning.”

He took a slow step away from them and then carried on. The sound of Neria’s shrill, panicked voice whispering _‘we came all this way for nothing, we came all this way for nothing, we came all this way for nothing_ ’ followed him much further than it should have.

They’d made it to the _Arlath’vhen_ , now where under the Maker’s Sky were they supposed to go from here?

 


	49. Promised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The really big gap between chapters might repeat itself, but I'm finally out of night-school and back on a normal daytime schedule- so finger's crossed I can start writing consistently again!

 

Neria had proposed marriage between them, and Jylan had accepted that proposal.

They had then been accosted by Dalish hunters and taken to the Arlath’vhen, a hotbed of Dalish culture and exchange which had put his promised in a state of automatic and persistent anxiety. But, she was now his promised, and she held his hand very tightly as they were led through the crowded ruins of Ostagar.

They entered the small territory staked out for An’eth’s clan of birth, and were understandably beset upon by curious elves who still kept some distance thanks to Velanna’s presence at the fire and her repeated attempts to engage Jylan in conversation about Gwaren. His answers to her had not been sufficient as he had been focused on Zevran and Neria and Dirthamen and Jeevan, but Neria had sat next to him and kept his hand in both of hers, so it remained a non-issue to him.

They had eaten from the clan’s food before offering back the rest of what they had foraged for themselves as a show of goodwill. Zevran had prowled the camp of Clan Vhadan’ena in a frustrated and confrontational manner, and then caused a sudden and violent fight to erupt between himself and three of the Grey Wardens in Commander Surana’s entourage. This had not effected Jylan’s status as Neria’s chosen. This would doubtless have some effect on their dealings with the Grey Wardens, but he was not certain how, and Neria did not seem to care so long as Jylan remained at hand, so he remained at hand.

Zevran informed them that the Hero of Ferelden was tranquil. This was, without question, an alarming development. Neria’s anxiety crested and broke over her, and Jylan guided her into the tent she had finished setting up and settled down with her. She collapsed into his arms and wept heavily, shaking and coughing and speaking in shrill, panicked words that they had come all this way for nothing and had gained nothing and now stood to lose everything. Jylan understood that the majority of what she had to say was born from hysteria, and thus did not take her assertions literally.

He held her because it was the proper, correct, and most pleasing course of action. He stroked her hair despite his dry and cracked hands because it was affectionate and soothing. She hugged him very tightly and sat in his lap, and then kissed his cheeks, and the bridge of his nose, and his temples where his hair began to grow. She used both hands to brush back through his hair.

She had not kissed him before and he found the warmth of her chapped lips very engaging. He was certain that she would kiss his mouth next when she stopped and hugged him fiercely, holding him close and tight and warm as he ensured his arms were wrapped securely around her back. A frightened, kicking sob knocked through her chest instead and she did not kiss him. He kept his eyes closed so his gaze would not upset her and looked up from within her embrace. His nose brushed her cheek, found hers, and they stayed like that. Certainly, now, she would want to kiss him.

She did not. They hovered there for at least twenty seconds with her warm breaths fluttering past his lips, but then she slipped past him and set her face down on his shoulder where she resumed her soft crying.

Maybe next time.

“You are safe.” He turned and set her down gently on the unfurled bed rolls, resting on his side next to her so the embrace was not completely broken. “You must rest, Neria.”

 _“Please don’t go-_ ” She was very upset and her distress worked to cancel out the positive fact that she had kissed him. Still, that she remained promised to him meant that the day remained objectively good, regardless of the Hero of Ferelden’s situation. She remained in place beside him and did not seek distance from him, which was also good.

“I will have to leave at some point to collect Jeevan and Dirthamen for the evening,” he told her, “but ultimately yes, I will remain here with you.”

“He’s _tranquil_ -” she wept.

“Zevran spoke of restoration,” Jylan reminded her. “The Hero of Ferelden has means far beyond those of a normal mage or Tranquil. Calm yourself, the situation is not dire. If all else fails we may still resort to South Reach.”

She did not calm, but she became quiet. Neria closed her weeping eyes and took several long, shaking breaths to ease her fears and anxiety, and then reached up with a hand to wipe her tears away. Good.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you like that,” she whispered, only the firelight bleeding through the tent canvas giving them light to see by. “I’m sorry…”

“I consider the attention pleasing, although you are not currently in a state from which you could find similar or more profound benefit.” He was laying on one elbow to keep himself up so he could see her, and reached out now with his free hand to stroke a lock of her soft hair from her face. “I understand that you are under intense stress tonight, Neria, even without Zevran’s unfortunate news. It is a profoundly negative development for the entire realm and I am not ignorant of the revelation’s personal effect on you.”

“We should have gone to South Reach right from the start,” she uttered bitterly, laying still on her back and looking up at him with her eyes swollen and wet. “Avoided this whole Warden mess.”

“If we had done so then you would no doubt be plagued by doubts over having avoided a meeting with your potential kinsman.” There had been, ultimately, no right answer to their question of where to go after Gwaren. “But we are safe, and recently fed, and in good health, and if your mind has not changed from this afternoon then we are also promised to marry. As I said, we may still ultimately turn to South Reach, but for the meantime we are little worse for wear.”

Neria was very quiet next to him, her tears had stopped and her breaths were even but she was not yet fully calm.

“...I haven’t changed my mind,” she murmured. He nodded.

“You are entitled to do so at any time, but I am not of a mind to convince you.”

“Usually the one who makes the proposal isn’t the one who changes their mind, Jeevan.” Her voice was quiet when she cautioned him. She used his family name again, and he understood that she meant it as a sign of affection.

“The same can be said for the one who provides the marriage token.” His next act was bold for a Tranquil. He did not need to do it and was not required to make the effort, but his hand moved just the same. He tucked his fingers under the grey folds of her scarf and reached up toward her neck, aware of his wrist and arm making contact however gently across her chest, and how Neria in turn was just as aware of his actions.

She took a soft breath and held it, and Jylan searched with his fingertips for the collar of her tunic, then the deep warmth of her throat, and finally found the coarse woven cord around her neck. He tugged on it and saw her swallow when the talisman moved under her clothes, drawn up from between her breasts until he pulled it free. The marigold glinted softly in its hazel wood casing, and Neria regained the movement of her arms so she could pull her scarf open and give the cord more length.

“Is it a suitable token?” He asked her. She swallowed again before nodding to him, and spoke:

“Copper is Sylaise’s metal, because it’s soft and warm and glows like her hearth.” Neria told him in a soft voice, whispering gently. “And marigolds are her flower because they look like the flames she gave to the people to warm their homes and guide them through the darkness towards sanctuary. I don’t know what they teach in the Circles, but without setting it in Halla horn or carving flames around it, I don’t think you could have picked a stronger _‘marry me’_ symbol.” Oh.

He recalled the conversation at her table regarding the style and decorations for her dream ward, now tainted and burned to nothing somewhere out in the Korcari wilds. Very well, if this was what copper marigolds meant to the Dalish, then there was no impetus to keep his original suggestion secret. Jylan turned the amulet around in his hand and brushed his thumb over the tear-drop shaped leaves decorating the back.

“Myrtle is a bridal flower,” he said. Neria slowly sat up, propping herself up on her elbows and looking at the amulet in his grasp, then leaning her head on his shoulder where he was propped up next to her. “I had no intention of proposing marriage, or of insulting you by making mention of it. However it did seem an injustice that, regardless of your unknown feelings towards matrimony, the alienage did not appear interested in matching you with anyone. It was what came to mind when we were discussing the decorations. Myrtle is the symbol of a long and dedicated marriage.”

“Then you really couldn’t have picked a better token.” She sounded sleepy against him and that was good, she needed her rest. Neria took a deep, steady breath, and then let it out slowly. “It makes up for skipping Dalish steps…”

“What steps?”

“Oh…” She laid herself back down and tugged on his robe, encouraging him to take his weight off the arm he was resting on and lay properly beside her. “Okay, so… in some of the Clans, like Talanulea… If you’re interested in someone then you have sew them a shirt. Just, simple fabric, doesn’t have to fit right or look good, just a sack with two arms and a neck hole.” As Neria explained herself, she reached out for one of the blankets still rolled up for transport and pulled it over so they could share it as a pillow. “You give it to them and that person has to wear it against their skin for three days without taking it off or bathing, then give it back to you.” He laid one of his arms out and she settled comfortably against his shoulder, allowing him to hold her warmly. “Sometimes a couple will sew shirts at the same time and trade them on the spot, and then it’s the same thing: wear it for three days and then give it back.”

“Are you requesting that I acquire the materials to make an undershirt for you?” He did not understand the tradition, but if it was important to her- Neria grunted softly and shook her head.

“When you get the shirt back you’re supposed to keep it by your face while you sleep for three nights,” she explained. “Some people put their pillow in it, or ball it up and cling to it. If they can’t get a good night’s sleep by the third evening, then there’s no engagement: you aren’t _right_ for each other. If you toss and turn or don’t like the smell at first, but by the third night it’s alright, then you proceed.”

Jylan considered this for a few moments, and then spoke. It was important to point out that at present, with him already circling her with his arms and his hand resting at her waist, Neria had one arm up around him and her fingertips cutting cool lines through his hair.

“…you and I have not had the opportunity to properly bathe or change our clothes since we left Gwaren.” Washing hands and face and hair did not count after a fortnight, let alone a month. There had been no point in changing clothes with no hope of cleansing the soiled ones. “But we have slept in close contact with one another for nearly ten days.” Neria gave a soft, contented hum under his head.

“And because of that, I think we get a pass for not making shirts. Unless I’ve got it wrong and you’re actually desperate for a night’s sleep all by yourself?”

“No,” he answered. “It is easy to fall comfortably asleep beside you.” He adjusted his arms, ensuring his hold was tight enough to support his words. “You are very warm, and under the smells of travel and the outdoors there is a persistent and pleasing scent. What steps follow the exchange of clothing?”

“Actually sleeping beside each other,” she told him. “Usually in the Keeper’s aravel, and again: for three nights. Do I keep kicking you awake, or shoving you off the bedroll?”

“No, but we have both experienced the jarring sensation of an arm falling asleep under the other’s weight.” Such as what would happen shortly to the arm he had around her, but that was not reason enough to remove it.

“Then we get another pass.” Good. He closed his eyes, and she continued to stroke his hair. When he opened them again he looked down and could see the marigold resting on her chest, rising and falling slowly with her breaths. “Lessons with the Hahren,” she continued softly. “Gifts between parents; tests of skill in each one’s profession; a vigil for each other’s dedicated god… It’s a whole affair, marriage usually takes two seasons from first interest to actual dedication.”

“The Hahren is dead,” so that step would not work. “Neither of us has parents, although I have three elder siblings and it is possible that Archmage Surana is your older brother. Your hunting has kept us fed as certainly as my medicines served the alienage, but I am no longer influenced by the pull of faith to a deity.” That last part was concerning. Jylan pulled his hand from around her waist and brushed the amulet again with one finger. Neria kissed his cheek again, and theirs was a very comfortable position together. “If there is a Dalish god you would desire to see me pay reverence to then I am not certain I am capable of genuine faith- but the gestures themselves should not be so difficult.”

“Oh…” Neria reached up and touched a hand to her face, brushing her fingertips across her soft cheek. “I… No, I don’t think you have to do that. I couldn’t pick one before, I don’t know how I’d manage it now.”

“…Dedication to a God is required for the blood writing, is it not?”

“Yes…” He mimicked the touch at her unmarked cheek, brushing his thumb under her eye and back to her slender ear. Neria nuzzled between the pillow and his cheek to kiss his skin again, her breath tickling his ear and hair. “It’s part of… why I don’t want to be here.”

“Because you did not take the vallaslin?”

Neria moved, she lifted one leg to lever herself upright and Jylan was required to pull away from her and permit her change in position. She sat up slowly with her scarf slipping around her shoulders and her pendant swinging, and didn’t look at him. He sat up and watched her run a hand back through her hair slowly, combing it away from her face before she drew her knees up and hugged her own arms. He had upset her.

“It was not my place to ask such a personal question,” Jylan said, sitting up properly but without coming close to her again. “Your reasons are your own, Neria.”

“They aren’t very good reasons,” she murmured, and looked back at him. She looked very tired and sounded weary. He would do well to find Dirthamen and Jeevan, giving her privacy before they settled down for the night. She gave a dismal sigh and then rolled her head back to stretch her neck, rubbing across her shoulder and nape with one hand.

He crept forward and assumed the task of rubbing the curve of her back and the line of her shoulders. She removed her cloak to make the task easier for him, and sighed gently as he worked his thumbs against the lower bend where her neck joined her back. If it would relax her or enable her to find ease, then the task was agreeable to him.

“How much do you know about the blood writing?” She asked him in a tired voice. He presumed that her eyes were closed as he worked on her neck and shoulders.

“I understand that they are considered a part of a Dalish youth’s coming of age transition,” he answered. “And that they are an expression of faith to the Dalish gods.”

“It’s a rite,” she agreed, her head lolling gently to the side as he rubbed small circles with his thumbs through the thick wool of her shirt and tunic. “There’s a vigil. You take a weapon, some rope, some elfroot and a blanket- and you go off into the woods to find the deepest, quietest part of the wilderness.” Neria’s words were accompanied by sighs, but she gave no indication that he should stop. “You go alone and you open yourself up with prayer, maybe burn some incense, and you let the sun shine on your skin, the rain bathe your hair, and the wind comfort you; all that stuff. You pray, and you recite the histories, and you pray s’more, and you remember the songs, and you keep praying until you know which of the Gods you’ll dedicate yourself to. They speak right into your soul, or something, and they make you feel whole in a way you’ve never been before, and that’s when you go back to your clan and the Keeper prepares the ritual.”

“Did you take this rite?” He asked, thought he was not certain to what end. She did not have the facial tattoos, but Neria was certainly past the age when she should have been considered an adult.

“I took it four times,” she admitted, but at least there was no sense of shame in her as she let her head roll the other way now, her hands working at the buckles and belts of her travelling tack until, for the first time in many days, the girded tunic and hunting leathers released around her chest and the straps over her shoulders came down. There were lines of grit and sweat staining the wool of her shirt when the soft armour was pulled away. She had loosened it some nights to sleep, but not actually taken it off since Gwaren.

“I was excited the first time,” she told him, grunting a little as she shifted the leather girdle around and began to unlace the side of it. “I’d been grieving for a long time and working so hard to make the clan my life- like I could let go of what they did to my mother because- because it was _for the clan_ and _for the best_ and all that garbage.” Neria undid and pulled off her belts, dragging the cases and satchels which carried much of her daily needs off from around her waist and tossing them aside. “I went out and I- I lost my _nerve_ and spent my whole first night out there in the ruins crying, just howling like a lost babe until one of the hunters found me by accident.” The rest of her gear came off her body completely and Naria lobbed it off towards the tent wall. She was sitting now in a travel-stained tunic with long grey sleeves over her shirt and any other hidden layers, and started kicking off her boots. All the while, she continued speaking: “It’s supposed to be a solitary vigil so seeing another person meant I had to stop and go back to camp. He apologized, but it’s not like everyone makes it on their first try anyways- there’s a lot of soul searching and that can be scary for anyone, let alone when they’re sixteen.”

“Were you permitted to try again?” she nodded, and consented to look at him again when Jylan brushed some of her thin blonde hair back from her face, around her ear. Unbidden, he wondered how much softer or warmer her body would feel next to his without the pleated leather secured around her torso. It was inappropriate and wrong of him to distract himself with such considerations, but the thought persisted.

“A few months later, high in the Frostback Mountains.” That was her answer to his question about trying again. “I planned to leave for three days, but the snow terrified me. I prayed, and I tried to fast, but I was so afraid of growing weak in the cold that on the second day I abandoned my spot and went hunting.” Considering her mother had perished in a sudden blizzard, Jylan found it thoughtless of the clan to send her out for such a trying vigil under similar conditions. “I was so ashamed that after I ate what I’d caught I buried the remains in the snow rather than burn them properly for Andruil. I cried for the second night, and went back to the clan like a guilty child.”

“Did the clan judge you for this?”

“ _Heavens no,_ ” she hushed, shaking her head again. “It’s a _Rite_ , everyone goes through it, and everyone does it differently. Hahren Minadera would tell the story of how he took his Rite four times, and he didn’t even have my excuse of a hunter straying into the site of any of his vigils. He told us how a Hunter from Sabrae finished his with only one try, but he’d vanished for _ten days_ first and scared his own Keeper to death. But still, when I was sent out the _third_ time, everyone expected me to do it properly.”

“The clan desired as much, but did you?” Jylan asked, as that seemed to be a missing feature of her story. “It was said within the Circles that an apprentice would have no hope of surviving their Harrowing if they did not have the mental and emotional strength to lunge for and ensure the outcome fell in their favour.” The specifics of that rite had been shrouded in secrecy, but determination and willpower had been common themes in any round-about discussion of the matter.

Neria wilted at his question, his reference to the Circle was made more-so to give her time to recover.

“I realized on the third that I didn’t,” she admitted with her back still to him, and his hands resting on her slumped shoulders. “I was angry, I was angrier than anything and I blamed the gods for being silent. I walked half a day just for distance, threw down my blanket in any old glade, got on my knees in a patch of sunlight and put my head to the ground. But I was- _so angry_. I didn’t care who showed up or what they said to me so long as I could go back to the Clan and put it all behind me. I think I actually said- _‘except Elgarn’an_ , _I don’t want those ugly thorns on my face_ ’. It doesn’t… really get any more sacrilegious than that…”

“No, I cannot imagine so.” So her faith in the gods had either failed or never manifested. At least within the Circles faith to the Maker and Andraste had been performative by decree and not necessarily genuine. “Should I assume the remaining two days were likewise unsuccessful?” She ducked her head and rubbed her hands through her hair, scratching at her scalp.

He was not entitled to her presence or attention, but they were a promised couple. He moved his hands from her shoulders to her arms and gave a brief tug on her. She did not have to answer or acknowledge him- but she did. Neria shuffled back and moved directly into his space, and she did not stop until her back was against his chest and his arms were able to close around her. He nudged the back of her head with his nose, closed his eyes, and held her. Indeed, she was much softer and much warmer without the leather gear.

“I was angry, and I was afraid,” she murmured after they settled like this. “I didn’t want to see or hear anything, because if I did then I’d have to go back and crawl into the aravel where Felaran would set the tattoos on my face. I told myself I’d just pick one at random, or I’d say whichever one I thought was prettiest, but how would I keep a lie like that together with just _his eyes_ hovering over me? With it staring me back in the face whenever I saw my reflection for the rest of my life?” Neria reached up slowly and clasped his hands, pulling his palms against her warm stomach. He held her a little tighter, and Neria leaned further back against him.

“And what then?” She asked softly, but it was rhetorical. “Get married? Even among the friends I had there wasn’t… really anyone I could see that happening with. And I was Second, so I would _have_ to get married to keep magic in the Clan, and all I could think of was how unhappy my mother and father were together and how I couldn’t do that to myself… I stayed out there for five days until a demon almost made me leap from the top of a waterfall just to see my mother again. I wanted her more than I wanted the clan that had killed her. I went back and- and I hated _everything_ about that damn camp.”

There was no heat in the tent save the two of them. Jylan moved his face from the back of her head to let his head hang next to her cheek. He moved one of his arms, keeping the first across her waist and stomach and bringing the other up and across to hold her shoulder. It would not do for her to become cold, or to feel insecure. She was very distressed again.

“Everything I’d liked about the Clan turned to ashes,” she whispered, and Jylan understood that this was to be kept in confidence. Her voice became soft enough that it would not escape the tent’s thin walls. “Halla are gentle and beautiful- but they _reek_ and make such _awful noise_. The aravel sails are that garish red colour, and everywhere in camp you can hear _the Dales this_ and _Arlathan that_ and _Orlais said this_ and _the Chantry says that_. Dead heroes, and dead empires, and dead traditions and dead gods. I didn’t want to hear another word the Hahren had to say about _anything_ , I didn’t have patience for my own friends, not even to go out hunting or to practice magic or _anything_.” She was crying now.

It was wrong of him, but he kissed her cheek. They were promised. She had chosen him. He kissed her cheek and Neria brought a hand up gently to touch his face and then stroke his hair. She accepted the gesture.

“I picked fights,” she continued softly, with shame. “I said awful things; I broke friendships; I hated every damn person in that camp. I don’t know why I bothered making peace before I left, I should have just packed my things and walked right off past the hunters.”

“How did you come to leave, if it was not in anger?” She had told them she was not an exile, and that she had left her clan on good terms. After hearing all of this, however, perhaps Jylan would refrain from considering Talanulea to be _her clan_. “It is still good that you were able to leave, by the sounds of things, with a clearer conscience.”

“I think- I just knew that _I_ was the problem,” Neria admitted. “One of the little girls in camp, she started having nightmares. She started getting the dreams you can’t wake up from, hearing voices you can’t really _hear_. Felaran waited until she froze a jug of water by accident before admitting she was a mage. I don’t know how other clans work but in Talanulea they only keep three mages at a time: a Keeper, and First, and a Second. Any more and they run the risk of the Templars coming after them, any less and a single disaster can destroy the chain. When another begins showing signs, the Keeper has to find another clan as quickly as possible and try to trade and balance out the number, it’s an accepted practice. The only problem is that we were down south in a place called the Frostback Basin, and getting back to where we knew the nearest clan was meant several weeks journeying far too close to the Orlesian Heartland…”

“What happened to the child?” Jylan asked her, his lips close to her ear.

“I left.” That was a far better alternative than what could have been suggested. “I volunteered. No one argued with me- just polite things and some praise. A few former friends asked me to be careful, Shamalia was worried I’d go astray because of how I’d been acting, so I grit my teeth and said I’d be fine before anything nasty could come out. She’s a wonderfully a sweet girl, she didn’t deserve to have a brat like me for Second… I called it my fourth vigil and the clan saw me off with food and weapons and medicines and tools, anything I could carry, really. They gave me a halla for guidance and protection… And I cut east into Ferelden’s Hinterlands, pushing and pushing until I reached the Brecilian… And then Gwaren.”

Jylan did not state the obvious: if Neria had called her departure from Clan Talanulea her fourth vigil, then the expectation would have been for her to perform her rituals and prayers before finding another clan to join. If she had done so, then the new clan would have gained an adult mage with a Keeper’s training and any further reshuffling of mages and marriage-able clan members could have carried on in the traditions of the wandering elves.

Instead, she had sought out her birthplace among the humans. Lacking Zephyr’s Ridge, she had gone to Gwaren. Neria had abandoned the clans and had no faith in the gods whose worship was one of the main tenants of the Dalish way of life. To reappear now three years later still without her vallasslin and likewise lacking a clan would only cause pain and difficulties for all parties. The argument could be made that it would be better for Clan Talanulea to believe their second had died in the search for a new clan.

“Would you walk the same path again, if given the choice?” Jylan asked her, because he did not know how to reassure her in any meaningful capacity.

Neria shifted in his embrace. She was very warm and it made sense that when her body moved the softer layers of her clothes would brush and rub against her unseen skin. He could not see the change but was aware of it, much like how he was aware that she had been resting between his legs with her hips laying back to his. She moved so she could twist around and face him, and Jylan’s hands remained stationery and brushed the wool of her tunic when she turned. His touch was at her shoulder and the side of her waist. She had one hand pressing down on his thigh, the other behind his head and curling in his short hair, her arm resting on his shoulder to support her.

He was moderately aroused and that was unfortunate. He doubted she could tell and he had no reason to bring it to her attention. She nosed at him and he closed his eyes in the wake of the affectionate touch, brushing his nose back and forth against hers while breathing in the pleasant smell of her. They were promised, they would be married, she had an expressed interest in bearing her own children and Jylan was physically capable of assisting her in that regard. However, there remained many things left unsaid concerning their marriage and said children, so to behave prematurely would assist neither of them.

As a Tranquil he did not have the right to put his physical needs over hers, he could not kiss her presently and Neria did not seem inclined to press her lips to his, despite her closeness and the gentle flutter of her breaths. As a Tranquil, he was not adept or properly suited to intimacy, but she had raised no complaints against him thus far. When she did choose to become intimate with him, after their marriage, then Jylan would ensure it was a pleasurable and rewarding experience for her. He would see that the matter had a positive effect on them both, when the time was right.

However, if she was so inclined to kiss him now in their current embrace, then he would make a full effort to see that the interaction pleased and satisfied her expectations as far as he was able.

“I walk the path that crosses and joins with yours,” she murmured to him. Jylan kept his eyes closed, lips carefully parted in case she chose to kiss him. “For better or worse, and for as far as the road stretches, into every horizon and beyond, Jeevan, _ma’sal-”_

“-Jylan?” The intruding voice made his eyes open and Neria shook herself with a fierce startle, turning away from him as they both looked to the tent entrance.

Against the firelight the warden’s identity was not immediately clear, but Velanna’s pale hair and withered ears came to light before her valasslin or the disapproving tension in the lines of her face. Her eyes were sharp and tracked Neria, who was no longer draped over him, but their close embrace had been obvious.

“Yes?” Jylan was not embarrassed. He was tranquil, and they had been sequestered in the private walls of their tent, and they had not been loud or inappropriately engaged with one another. There also existed a promise of matrimony between them, as well as his own simple ability as a Tranquil to disengage at will from any social interaction. He was not embarrassed, but the situation was still embarrassing.

“…I have your nephew with me.” This implied that Jylan had lost track of time while comforting Neria and had not gone at the appropriate time to locate Jeevan among the aravels and gathered clans. At Velanna’s words, Jeevan was ushered into the tent with a hand. Neria moved from him and beckoned the boy to her, which he answered with a curious level of affection he had not previously shown for his mentor: he not only chose Neria over Jylan, but folded himself into her equally surprised embrace.

“…I got lost,” Jeevan murmured to her chest, “I thought- because we ate at the Keeper’s fire, and it’s the biggest fire, that if I just _asked_ …” Jylan found the notion of Jeevan becoming lost a curious one. This was the same boy who had routinely escaped the alienage’s walls to visit his aunt in a brothel across the city. That being said, cities were a great deal more stable than an extended Dalish encampment.

“I found him with Clan Nu’nin’s Keeper instead,” there was a rustle of affection in Velanna’s voice, and then the Warden climbed into the tent and settled down by the entrance with her legs folded, her position directly in front of Jylan. “He’s a very bright boy, but was quite turned around when I showed up. Keeper Ashaelasan sends her regards.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Warden.” Velanna gave him a frown in exchange for his comment.

“You’re being awfully formal with me today, _dahlen_ ,” Her words were calm, but carefully spoken. “And Zevran’s been very tight-lipped about what happened to make you leave Gwaren- were you unhappy there?”

“I found Gwaren agreeable,” he answered her in much the same way he had earlier in the day. “But our departure from the city was necessary.”

“And your company for the journey, was that also necessary?” Neria looked up from where she was still comforting Jeevan, and both she and the child gave the Warden a nervous look.

“Jeevan is my eldest nephew by my older sister,” Jylan explained, maintaining Velanna’s attention. “He is a young mage, and during a harsh confrontation with an elder in the alienage his magic lashed out to protect both himself and his younger brother. We escaped the city authorities with Zevran’s aid, and intended to seek Magi sponsorship from Archmage Surana- but tomorrow we will need to re-evaluate our situation.”

“We.” Velanna repeated and said no more. Jylan made no reply. It had not been his magic and he was not the one who required sponsorship. Velanna pursed her lips and then sent an accusing look to Neria before refocusing on him. “We, being you, your nephew, and…?” She was angling for an introduction Jylan had not yet discussed with Neria.

“My chosen.” Velanna’s focus gave an audible snap at his statement.

“Excuse me-?” She stuttered, “You- your _what?_ ”

Next to him, he was aware of Neria’s lips twisting tightly, trying to force down a smile. Good, it was better that she find humour in this moment than additional stress.

“My chosen,” Jylan repeated for the stunned Warden. “Otherwise: my promised wife, engagement partner, or fiancée. The term _betrothed_ would falsely imply that the match was arranged by others, when in fact we have been trending in this direction for many weeks regardless of our own intentions.”

“But you’re _Tranquil_ ,” Velanna said, still staring. Jylan nodded at the statement.

“Neria is better versed with my condition and its shortcomings than An’eth was,” he explained, as the matter was simple to him. “I have not been commanded or otherwise compelled to accept her presence or to encourage her companionship. I understand that she is here by the same freedom of choice that I am.”

Velanna sat there in a defeated silence for several moments. The quiet provided ample opportunity for reflection: Velanna had previously been the First of a Dalish Clan, though Jylan did not know the name of it. She had also left the Dalish many years before Neria presumably would have found Talanulea, so there was significant doubt that she would know anyone who would tell her who his promised actually was.

Additionally: Velanna had been his friend in Vigil’s Keep, but also An’eth’s Warden comrade, so her shock at finding him engaged only a season after his departure from Amaranthine was not unfounded. Vhadan’ena was An’eth’s clan of kin and birth, so it stood to reason that An’eth was somewhere in this camp as well- unless she had been sent away elsewhere by the Order prior to the Arlath’vhen. He would need to discuss this possibility with Neria when they were alone again.

“I…” Velanna roused herself, eyes closed, and gave her head a brisk shake. She sat up straighter and looked between Jylan and Neria with a critical eye, then frowned at him again. “I don’t know why you’re stone-walling me, _dahlen_. I know An’eth and the Warden Commander hurt you, but is it so unreasonable for me to want to know more about this woman you say you’re suddenly engaged to?”

Jylan intended to say that he was not stone-walling her, but before he could speak he realized she was right. He did not consider it prudent to be forthcoming with her about Neria, he did not consider her presence in their tent to be necessary. However, he was also being inconsiderate towards her feelings. They had not parted on poor or bitter terms. The gold from Velanna and Warden Nathaniel had comfortably supported his family throughout the winter and paid the dowries for his nieces and sisters. His behaviour was unworthy of her station and ignorant of his own.

“It has been a long journey, Velanna.” He settled for these words instead. “I travel no easier than I socialize, and am very tired.” Velanna’s frown deepened at his comment, with a touch of hurt.

“You won’t even trade our names?” He was not certain that Neria’s name was even permissible to give. He looked to her and found Neria watching him with soft concern in her tired eyes. Jeevan was slumped against her chest with her arms still cradling him, and the boy looked like he was properly asleep.

“Do you desire an introduction to this Warden?” He asked her.

“You kept saying _I_ was the one who needed to rest,” Neria said, “But it’s clearly you. She calls you _dahlen_ , is she one of the Wardens you trust?” A complicated question.

“Yes.” He did not know if Velanna had any loyalty to him per-sey beyond that born from pity for his condition, but pity would be enough. He trusted Velanna not to go out of her way to cause harm, or for any wrongs she committed to be made in ignorance, not intention. Neria nodded over Jeevan’s head.

“Then I would be happy for an introduction, and then a proper visit tomorrow morning.” Then it would be as she desired.

“A full introduction?” He asked, because with her surname… a shadow passed through her eyes and Neria nodded again.

“Yes.”

“Very well. This is Warden Sergeant Velanna Howe of Vigil’s Keep, Healer and Arcanist of the Fereldan Grey Wardens, and Veteran of the Sacking of Redcliffe Castle. She serves as Amaranthine’s ambassador to the Dalish clans which pass through the Arling.” The two women traded polite nods with each other, and then Jylan gave the other half.

“Velanna, this is Neria Surana of Gwaren Teyrnir,” not the Dalish. The omission did not matter because Velanna stopped listening. “Daughter of Halliserre and Galen Surana of Zephyr’s Ridge, former midwife to the Alienage of Gwaren, and my promised bride.”

They were all aware of Velanna’s very spirit seizing up in shock at the sound of Neria’s name, but Jylan continued the introduction anyways. Silence filled the gap his voice left when he finished, and Neria appeared to be holding her breath as they waited for Velanna to come back to them.

“Surana?” The Warden asked, staring at Neria.

“Yes,” she said.

“ _Surana?_ ”

“That’s what he said, yes.”

“Su-ra- _na?_ ” Neria scowled this time, and something between the way she wrinkled her thin nose and pinched the corner of her mouth made Velanna’s jaw drop and her eyes widen as far as they would go in the dim light. Neria took yet more offense to this.

“Did you think we came up with the idea to see the Arl of Amaranthine for sponsorship on a whim?” She asked in a shrewd voice. “You said yourself that he hurt my chosen already, so why go back like a kicked dog if we didn’t have a reason? Zevran helped us get out of Gwaren, and Zevran wanted us to try and talk to him but all of that’s gone up in smoke with what’s happened to him now. If the Arl won’t see us then he won’t see us and we’ll make our own way, we’ve lived separate lives for this long and I don’t see what harm there is in going back to that.”

Velanna did not regain her voice for several more seconds after Neria made her remarks, and her composure remained even further gone as she found Jylan with swimming, confused eyes.

“You want to _marry_ into the Commander’s family?” She asked him, and she was wrong.

“No, I want to marry Neria.” Both women heard him mis-speak. Tranquil did not have wants.

“Jylan…”

“That was bold,” Neria murmured, searching his face with her eyes when he looked at her. She hesitated, but when neither he nor Velanna filled the silence she spoke. “Old Oma would eat his shoes if he heard you say that: he came by my house three times in the week before we left warning me I wasn’t to say a word about weddings to you if they made you Hahren.”

Jylan had not heard this before. His attention shifted completely away from Velanna so he could focus on it. Omanan, his father’s friend and the elder who had slandered Jylan’s sister for conceiving a child out of wedlock, and continued to ride their family’s reputation into the ground when she took to the brothel for her work. Omanan, who had not listened to Jylan at any point during his campaign to lift him up as a challenger to Hahren Masao.

“Omanan threatened you?” He asked, but Neria just tilted her head curiously and then shrugged.

“Warned me,” she repeated, but that was not a satisfying answer. Warnings preceded repercussions. Repercussions were punishments. Calling attention to a looming punishment meant:

“Omanan threatened you,” he stated. Neria clicked her tongue at him like she would have at a child.

“We’re a month and haunted forest away from Gwaren,” she reminded him, though he needed no such reminder. “What would you have done about it anyways?”

“Warned him that he should apologize to you.”

“Warned him?” She echoed, with a sudden twist to her mouth like she was resisting a smile.

“Yes.” And, “And if we should find ourselves in Gwaren again while he is still alive, then I will deliver such a warning with all promptness.” Preferably with that sylvan wood branch in his hand. He was being entirely reasonable. Neria had done nothing to warrant threats against her in any form or severity. Similarly, Omanan had repeatedly expressed a great fondness for his own sense of self-importance, and if he was so inclined to exercise that imagined authority by uttering threats within the Alienage then Jylan saw no reason not to correct and dissuade him from that path.

Neria was watching him quietly and with great warmth in her eyes. They were both very tired from the length and excitement of the day, and it took her an unusually long time to gather her words before she spoke again. He did not understand the presence of mist in her gaze, but when suffering extreme fatigue it was not uncommon to find tears forming.

“I know he doesn’t love me, Warden Howe,” Neria spoke softly and looked to Velanna, who Jylan realized had been sitting there and watching him with a quiet, open expression for some time. The two women looked at each other as Neria spoke. “But when he talks to me like that I know it’s because he’s chosen to. He’s not driven by anything anymore, he just says what he thinks is right and then he delivers exactly on his word.”

Velanna took a quiet breath and nodded to Neria, turning her hand to Jylan calmly.

“The last time I heard him speak like that, he was arguing for Warden Guerrin’s life in South Reach. I don’t know you, _lethallan_ , but I’m willing to learn.”

“Thank you, Warden.”

Velanna bade them goodnight after that, and because there was no need to set a watch or make room for Zevran in the tent the three of them were able to settle down for a full night of rest. There were more blankets available, and the arrangements were snug by design rather than necessity. Neria kept Jeevan tucked close to her, with Jylan comfortably settled behind her and eventually joined by Dirthamen when the hound realized it was time to cuddle and rest.

Their sleep was interrupted by one of Neria’s nightmares and Jylan remembered the loss of her dream ward. Even if he could acquire lyrium from the Dalish, he no longer had his tools. It had been a mistake for him to leave them behind in Gwaren and that knowledge followed him until he found sleep again, his face tucked warmly to her shoulder and neck.

The next morning was strange to him. It was very loud, and bright, and coming out of the tent made him feel very exposed to the noise and activity of the Dalish around them.

Neria seemed different and yet the same to him. She had more purpose here than on most mornings in Gwaren, and before any of them had eaten she had begun scouting the clan’s encampment for useful things to borrow or simply use. She had the blankets they had been using for a month on a rack and was beating them sharply with a borrowed stick while Jylan was called to an odd task by Jeevan.

“Vedan- Van… _vaaa…!_ ”

“Vhadan’ena.” Jylan repeated to his nephew. If Jeevan desired to explore the camp with the other children, then he needed to know which Clan to return to at the end of their games. “Vhadan.”

“Vadan.” Close enough.

“Ena.” The boy scowled with his green eyes and snarled his lips, repeating him with unnecessary force. Jylan put the two parts together: “Vhadan’ena.”

“Vannanena.” No. Neria was laughing at them.

“Just let him take Dirth,” she said around a grin, and Jylan consented to this. Dirth preferred the company of running children to sitting idle all day, and the mabari would be able to find Jylan again with little trouble despite the abundance of new elves and animals and scents.

With his nephew safely seen off, Jylan took the rod from her to perform the manual task of beating out the blankets and bed-rolls. He made the mistake of removing his cloak and robe when the task left him too warm for them. The black wool robe vanished from the bench where he left it, and he did not discover its whereabouts until Neria called him back to the emptied tent for something.

“Do you remember the rabbit pelts I was saving?” She asked, and yes, he did remember them. “I traded them for soap.” She had then found a bucket of warm water and a clean rag, and left Jylan alone to wash himself and dress in the clean clothes still sitting at the bottom of his bag from Gwaren. When he emerged from the tent in fresh clothes, he found his filthy outfit and robe in a steaming bath of laundry water by the Keeper’s fire.

“They let you use one of their vats?” He asked, because that seemed remarkably charitable for a band of nomads who did not know them or have much reason to trust them.

“It was laundry or food,” she answered from her labour with the vat. “But I should still be able to hunt today.”

“I will continue this task,” he offered. “You should refresh yourself as I have.”

“ _Gladly_.” Her clothes and fresh water were added to the laundry vat and Jylan did as he had said he would. The clothes were stirred in the hot water and soap, then fished out and the refuse water taken away in buckets to pour down a ditch in the ruins’ foundations. The clothes were taken to an old well where the water was untainted and cold to be rinsed and wrung, then brought back to hang in the crisp spring sun to dry.

“What of Jeevan?” He asked her, but Neria just smiled once she came out of the tent with her hair still damp and a fresh pink colour to her cheeks. She seemed to be in very good spirits now that she was clean.

“Why do you think he wanted out of camp so quick?” A fair point. Jylan had wrestled with his nieces and nephews before concerning bath time, he was confident Jeevan could put up as terrible a fight as Tahir if pressed. Two adults and a laundry vat would probably be required to clean him. “Jeevan?”

“Yes?” She was speaking to him, and smiling.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He did not know what she was thanking him for, but it did not matter: she was pleased with him and that was enough.

Neria remained industrious throughout the morning, but her good spirits were not so consistent. With him, she was endlessly pleasant and teasing in her good humour: pointing out with sarcasm when they both realized he had splashed himself with the laundry water, or simply laughing at his expense when he realized that halla sounded remarkably like goats and goats had a propensity to defecate on everything and he asked her if he should concern himself with such things considering the clan next to Vhadan’ena had four halla in their encampment for some reason. Goats were bad.

“They taste good though,” she teased him brightly.

“Nothing tastes good enough to offset the pervasive stink and hazard of the animal, not even when Ariyah prepares the meat herself.”

“Ariyah’s not here,”

“Then my point is all the more valid.” Goats were bad.

She laughed when he spoke to her. Though his comment was made in earnest he still understood that being obstinate on the matter of livestock was amusing to her, and laughter eased her mood.

She required this distraction and easement, because with anyone but him her mood changed for the worse.

Warden Nathaniel Howe, Zevran, and the Warden Commander had left camp at the first sign of dawn, though Jylan did not know why and had not inquired. When Velanna sought to speak with Neria, she withdrew immediately, became quiet, and spoke only very seriously. Velanna brought her a book blazoned with the Circle of Magi’s insignia and the two of them sat for a time with it, focusing on a particular page.

Jylan heard the name _Zephyr’s Ridge_ pass between them several times, along with names and dates. Neria eventually claimed she felt unwell and hid in their tent until Velanna, looking dissatisfied and worried, retreated back to the Warden compound.

Jylan entertained his chosen through the tent wall with questions of whether the Dalish would accept Fereldan silver or not, and the topic of what various clans would or would not sell to city elves distracted her from her low mood. She consented to come back out to the fire with her needles and coarse threads and repair the wear and tear on her leather gear in the good light of day.

Keeper Lanaya was engaged in a solemn conversation with Warden Lavellan by her fire, but the two Dalish ignored the city elves. It was one of the clan crafters who interrupted the late morning when they realized Neria’s armour was of Dalish make, and then Jylan’s satchel was the same, and he insisted on seeing the leatherwork of Jylan’s gloves in detail despite their refusals.

Jylan did not know what the crafter said in the beginning, as he was young and bright-eyed and spoke enthusiastically to them in El’vhen. He did not know how much of the ancient language Neria understood or had learned from the Dalish, but the horror that cut across her face and drained the colour from her skin said too much. When the young craftsman finally changed to Trade and began to praise the workmanship and criticize some of the stitches, asking which clan they had traded from for them, Neria looked as if she may become ill from fright.

“Oh, but- this is odd.” Jylan would not relinquish his hold on the satchel, and the crafter refused to acknowledge how nervous Neria was beside him. “Horse skin? That’s awfully rare for a Clan to get enough of for-” Neria fled the interaction and hid in the tent again. When the crafter insisted on trying to speak through the tent walls to ask his questions, Jylan picked up the sylvan wood staff he had been given and stood in front of the tent flaps. He did nothing more, he had no cause to do more. Neria did not wish to speak with the crafter.

“But Master Varathorn would be _so_ interested in-” No.

“She does not wish to speak with you,” Jylan stated. “She is resting and has retreated from the fire’s warmth in order to do so. I thank you for the praise you have given for our belongings, but now ask that you leave my promised alone.”

“Is she sick?” The young elf asked, though he was not to be considered a child due to the pale grey lines inked across his cheeks and down to cup his chin.

“If she is, then it is my concern and not yours, thank you.”

“I can have the Keeper come and see if she’s alright.”

“That will not be necessary, thank you.”

“But she could be _really sick-_ ”

“She is only sick of you, and that is easily remedied.”

Soft laughter kicked up inside the tent immediately behind him, which was good. The crafter did not appreciate the comment he made and scowled at him, but then gave a surly grunt and walked off.

“ _Thank you,_ ” Neria’s voice slipped past the tent flaps.

“You are welcome.”

Jeevan returned in the wake of two older Dalish boys and followed by Dirth, who had acquired a long leg bone from some manner of animal. His hound insisted on showing the spoils to Jylan, who rubbed his head and then ushered him into the tent to be cooed at and doted on by Neria who was happy to receive him.

Jeevan then handed Jylan a roasted apple, the skin wrinkled and warm.

“I have one for Neria too,” the boy chirped. Jylan did not recall giving his nephew coin to purchase food. Perhaps the children had bartered or performed chores.

“Where did you get these?” He asked.

Jeevan’s answer was to freeze with his teeth half-sunk into the hot skin of his own apple. The boy made a play at imitating Dirthamen’s guilty eyes, but Jylan was tranquil: he took his nephew by one long ear and repeated the question. He was not angry, and there was no fear in him, but the hold was highly effective for extracting answers.

“You are young and you do not know better,” he lectured when Jeevan’s whining answer was that he and his new friends had not been seen. “But we are city elves and we are here only because Clan Vhadan’ena has not run us off. If you steal, you will be caught, and when you are caught you will be punished. You are young, but now you know better. Steal again, Jeevan, and I will punish you as well as Samar or Rian did back home.”

He did not want to hit the boy.

“ _Yes, uncle.”_

 _“_ Where did you get these, nephew?”

“I don’t know- there were red banners with a bow and swirl on them, down in the old cathedral!” He did not want to hit the boy.

“Into the tent.” He released his nephew, and before Jeevan could scurry all the way into the tent there was a sharp yelp and scuffle as Neria grabbed and yanked him inside.

 _“Red banners with **what**?”_ She hissed at the boy. It was an ill sign.

The prospect of simply tethering Jeevan to this camp and waiting the incident out evaporated when Jylan turned and found Keeper Lanaya’s attention on him, a similar apple in her hand and another guilty child staring at the Keeper’s feet. Warden Lavellan had his arms sternly folded under a mantle much like the Keeper’s white halla fur, and the last guilty child was already in the process of being hauled off by an embarrassed family member or parent.

Jylan approached them around the fire. The Keeper gave a soft, warm smile to him, and nodded before speaking.

“I apologize for our youngsters dragging yours into trouble already.”

“The alienage breeds a powerful compulsion to fend for one’s self,” Jylan deflected. “It is more likely that my nephew made the suggestion, and therefore I am prepared to make amends on his behalf. I am trained as an apothecary, literate, and well-educated by the standards of human society. If I cannot trade labour for the petty theft, then I am confident I have coin to spare for half a dozen apples.”

“You’d be better off with labour,” Warden Lavellan told him crossly, his arms still folded and the Silverite studs on his gambeson catching the calm light under the fur mantle. “And avoiding any mention of humans, Talanulea’s not fond of the shems _or_ city elves.” Oh. That clan. “I don’t even think _I_ count as Dalish anymore in their eyes.”

“Peace, my friend,” Lanaya uttered calmly, and then looked to Jylan. “I will send my First with an apology, visitor. Vhadan’ena can take your work or your coin if you still feel there’s a debt to be paid, but they’re only apples, and children are children.” This seemed fair to him, and work would keep him busy now that there were no more menial chores to perform.

“I am able to the task, Keeper, thank you.”

“You’re also a lot more talkative than I remember,” Warden Lavellan told him, “And Velanna told us of your engagement, though little enough of the bride. Is she not feeling well?”

“She is fatigued,” Jylan lied, “and she longs to put the reasons for our departure from Gwaren behind her. When we find sponsorship or a safe place to hide, she will feel better.”

Keeper Lanaya’s smile became more pronounced.

“How old is your nephew, exactly?” Hmm. This, and many more questions abruptly followed.

How old was Jeevan, and when had his magic manifested? Did he have any expressed talents yet, or only general power? Did he sleep well? Had he properly entered the Fade yet, or only heard the whispers? Had either of his parents been mages? Had his grand-parents? Were any other members of the family mages except Jeevan and Jylan? Did they have any human or human-blooded relatives? When had the family come south to Ferelden? Did he know their origins within the boarders of Rivain?

And then came the questions for Jylan himself. When had he been made Tranquil, and for how long? Similar questions to Jeevan’s came after his memories of magic. Had he been skilled or strong? Had he struggled and if so with which areas? Had he met with the Hero of Ferelden yet, as the Wardens had told the Keeper that he was aware of Surana’s condition? Jylan was truthful because he saw no reason to lie, especially about his own past abilities.

What of Neria? Here Jylan did not lie so much as blatantly omit information. He did not mention that Neria was a mage, he did not tell them her surname. He answered only that he knew she had a kinsman of great magical talent in the Andrastian system, thus confirming her bloodline carried the talent. Lanaya confirmed that they intended to marry, and that Neria had a desire for children, and he affirmed the possibility that any children conceived by their marriage would very likely develop magic as well. This, with her skills in hunting, woodcraft, and leatherwork, made the Keeper very happy.

Jylan did not ask why he was put through such a gauntlet of questions. Even seated at the Keeper’s fire now with a modest meal of sweet roots and stolen apple, served with hot honey tea, the reasons were clear: the Keeper had a First, but no Second, and she would not let a family of skilled elves rich in magical blood wander by her people without inquiring after them. 

It was well into the afternoon and the Warden Commander had still not returned with Zevran and Howe. Velanna had joined them at Lanaya’s fire next to Warden Lavellan, and Neria had crept from the tent with the weary darkness and red flush of persistent crying. She took a spot next to Jylan and leaned on his side, slipping her arm under his and clasping their hands together. Jeevan and Dirthamen remained in the tent. Lanaya’s First fetched more food and tea, as well as a soft blanket for Neria to wrap around her shoulders because she looked ‘ _sick’_.

Neria hugged his arm and closed her eyes with her head on his shoulder, and did not contribute to the conversation.

“With all you have told me,” Keeper Lanaya said in her calm, gentle way, “I know you say you’re prepared to return to the _shem’len_ cities and ghettos, but it would be wrong of me to let you pass without speaking first. Would you not consider remaining with Clan Vhadan’ena? We always have room for the skilled and able, and the _Arlath’vhen_ is a time for families to come together and forge new bonds between clans. The signs are clear enough if you look for them, perhaps the home you’re searching for is right here.”

“I do not believe so, no.” Jylan told her, and he saw the sudden wince clip through the two wardens. Beside him, Neria drew a deep, shaken breath before exhaling in relief. “The Dalish lead a proud and noble life, and the kindness you have shown us is something we will pay forward when we are able, but to join you is no more an option than the suggestion of taking my nephew directly to the Chantry for abandonment.”

“That is a harsh comparison,” Keeper Lanaya did not like his choice of words, as evidenced by the sudden tension between her eyes and the brisk tone of her reply. Her reaction was fair, as he had been blunt in his refusal.

“Sternly worded, but no less appropriate,” he countered. “Neria has her reasons, and Jeevan has his, and I have mine. Your kindness and concern for our welfare has been noted and is greatly appreciated, however we must refuse your generous offer.”

“Am I not entitled to know what makes apostasy and living under the thumb of human rulers more appealing than the Dalish?” Keeper Lanaya asked him, and Jylan noted Velanna and Mahanon trading a fast, anxious look with each other. “You came so far just to reach the _Arlath’vhen_ , only to say no to exactly what you’re looking for?”

“If you require an explanation then I will supply one, though it is distasteful.”

Neria tightened her hold on him briefly.

“What are you doing?” She murmured, he looked at her but did not mimic her quiet volume.

“Offering an explanation for our refusal, at the Keeper’s discretion.”

“Jeevan-?”

“I would hear it,” Lanaya challenged him, and the matter was simple enough. As he could not feel embarrassment, he could not feel shame.

“Simply, it is because our situation is not so dire as to necessitate my adoption into the community and kin of my rapist.” Neria gasped and sat up beside him, her hand on his chest and soft words telling him he didn’t have to say it like that.

“No one had to know that, you didn’t have to say it…” He squeezed her hand, it was done.

It took a moment for his words to sink in. Lanaya’s grey eyes widened very slowly, and the sharp gasp and painful freeze which grasped both of the Wardens beside her swung the Keeper’s attention around to them. Velanna was seated with a hand over her heart, eyes closed like she was in pain. Lavellan had his eyes closed as well, lips pursed and features tense with shame. He took it further by adding a softly murmured prayer to himself when Lanaya was incensed enough to rise to her feet. She grilled the two Grey Wardens with her eyes, and her voice was a hiss when it came out.

“You said she took a lover who crossed Surana.” Jylan squeezed Neria’s hand again and moved his arm a little, a sign for them to both stand up. “By your faces, I see your lies. You did not say that this was him, and I don’t hear you challenging his words.” Neria picked herself up, still clasping hands with him and holding the soft blanket tight around her shoulders.

“How could we know he’d cross paths with your clan?” Velanna asked, and this made her stop before Jylan could lead her back to the tent. “You know she’s sorry, you know she’s ashamed.”

“ _Rape?_ ” The Keeper leaned hard on the word.

“She abused her power as a Warden, and dishonoured herself in the process,” Mahanon explained with regret, Neria shook her hand from his grasp. “When you give a Tranquil an order-”

“She abused _him_ ,” Neria hissed, distracting the three Dalish. “ _Him_ , not her _power_. This is _her_ _clan?_ ” She pulled the blanket down off her shoulders and dropped it on the ground, backing away from it with her eyes locked angrily on the trio across the fire. She turned a furious, haunted look on Jylan.

“What does she look like?” An’eth? Jylan pictured her before speaking.

“She is shorter than you with pale red hair,” he had to think through the description. “Her hair is thin and often shaved away in portions. Her skin is fair and she wears the blood writing of Dirthamen. She is lean and muscular and much stronger than you or I. She wears the heavy armour of a Warden shield defender, though in this camp she may choose to dress more in the manner of her people.”

“To my aravel, all of you.” Keeper Lanaya stated, but this only caused Neria to spin shrewdly towards the older woman.

“Why?” She demanded. “You’re not going to _summon_ her, are you?”

“I will not allow a wound like this to fester in my clan.”

“No.” Neria said sharply, “But you’re not going to use him to cleanse it either. We’re leaving- we’re leaving _right now._ This is _her clan_ -” She turned to him, “You should have told me!”

“A great deal has happened since our arrival,” Jylan defended himself, “I did not know when it would be prudent to discuss this with you, but I did not keep the information from you on purpose. Certainly, it would have come up and I would gain nothing from keeping secrets.”

She was about to say something but only took her breath and held it, watching him painfully for several seconds. She was weighing whether or not she believed him, but then nodded. This was good.

“Uncle?” Jeevan called from the tent, the boy now crouching by the open tent-flaps with Dirthamen huddled low with his ears down, watching the adults argue.

“I don’t want to meet him,” Neria announced in a thick, frightened voice. “I want to go to South Reach.” She was behaving solely as her emotions dictated, but Jylan nodded to her.

“It is unwise for us to leave with our clothing still damp,” he cautioned. “We will barter coin for the necessary supplies, and move our tent to another location for tonight before departing tomorrow morning.”

“ _Fine_.”

“No, not fine!” Velanna interrupted, quickly coming towards them and placing a hand on Neria’s arm. “Lethallan, you can’t run away from something like this, you and the Commander are too close to miss each other now, and Jylan- _dahlen_ you _need to_ -”

“Take your hand off me.” Neria’s voice was quiet and severe. What followed from her lips was el’vhen, and Jylan did not know enough of the language to understand her completely. What he did know was that it was a fluid, steady ribbon of words that snared the attention of the three Dalish elders and held them fast.

In it’s roughest, patched together way, what Jylan pieced together from the words she spoke was:

“ _I am not your kinswoman, your lethallan; I am no friend to taint. If I am banal’vhen then I am banal’vhen_ , _now release me and step back.”_

Velanna’s fingers slowly came away, and Neria turned sharply away with every line and motion screaming terror held back only by anger. She did not require him to comfort her, she required him to listen.

“Jylan-” Velanna called him weakly, and he regarded her briefly as Neria told Jeevan to fetch their bags and begin packing up their belongings from the drying and hanging racks around the tent. “Dahlen, she’s here, she’s _sorry_.”

“If her remorse is genuine then she will accept my decision to avoid further confrontation with her.” He told her. “Thank you, Warden Howe, for your company and concern. Thank you, Keeper Lanaya, for your hospitality and generosity. My family will pay forward the kindness and goodwill you have shown us, but will impose upon you no longer.”

“ _Dahlen.._.” He ignored Velanna.

Jylan assisted his nephew and his chosen in pulling down their small camp within the clan’s boundaries. Keeper Lanaya brow-beat and shamed the two Wardens into her aravel for what Neria promised would be a claustrophobic and shaming lecture.

Neria forgave Jeevan his trespasses because the boy could never have imagined whose camp he had stolen treats from. Where she overstepped was her decision to tell the child in blunt and frightening terms that the elves of Clan Talanulea hated city elves like them, and they had murdered Neria’s mother. Neria also forgave Jylan for not being more forthcoming about his connections to Clan Vhadan’ena, and she expressed this in the form of an apology to him for her anger and harsh words.

She permitted him to brush her soft hair back out of her face, and when she pulled the marigold amulet from her shirt she allowed him to touch his lips to the skin-warm metal. They remained promised, and they would go to South Reach.

By the time the Warden Commander, Warden Nathaniel, and Zevran returned to Clan Vhadan’ena, they were gone.

 


End file.
